The blunt air presses hard against the walls, spilling fumes and discontent. The sober light hangs in slabs, stretching the window, cracking the seen. The stretch and pause of what will be will be undone, as the intractable tumbling sets to its work. That roller coaster climb of night awaits just behind the horizon. The argument is tabled with the rebuke of dusk, only to seethe and snap beneath the foundations and between the lines.
The collapse is nearly audible, when intentions fail to find a mooring. The longing and the lingering, the partitions and the aim. All these angles and directions that seemed so certain become the apostate to every reasoned thought. Plans receive little absolution removed from outcome. The right choice is only right until it isn't.
Somewhere in the rubble, in the crumble of sense and lucre, in the gap between remark and reward, the urge to replace the pieces, the struggle to retell and reveal begins. The notion to create is primal and civilized, the result of culture and of blood. The song, the story, the painting, the poem-- these are all our birthright. The idea to strive towards them without a social context is somewhat new. Trees fall, and without witness they will make a sound. The work undone at the end of each completed day is work just the same. Every thought an arrow, released without aim. Every failure yet another castle built at the mercy of the roiling sea.