Forever settles as the sediment of all the stars greased by eyes, all the reasons that words must fail. Feet clamber through the warm mud, boots crunch the dry leaves, the moon always up to something someplace in the sky. Our stories pressing us into the inevitable soil, grinding us into that biblical dust. The skin yawns and itches, trying to conform to the mortar work of these restless bones. It is easy to mistake the moment for destiny. Looking backwards, what else have we ever known?
If there is a direction these lines will find, it is neither fate nor choice that frees them. My aim is a thing made of a ravaging incessant will, bent by the portents of wind and gravity, bent by the broken clockwork of my own mistakes and longings. The brushwork of an errant mind, the unsteady strength of a greedy hand, the intimacy with fury that makes weapons of so much of the idle world. There is a grand magic on the job in these simple mechanistic minglings of desire and physics, but it is like the power of water. The inevitable course of something settling, an alignment with the most likely direction seems prophetic when choice becomes flesh and blood in these bites and kisses. Things are bound to happen, whether motion is ever invoked.
There is a moth idle in the circle of light cast upon the ceiling, a mosquito awaiting its taste on the wall above the door. Forces behave differently based upon proximity and scale. Gravity manifest between things and beasts greater than the tug of that midnight star you long for with heavy eyes and a heart burning blue. Surface tension greater for the insects clinging to the walls that the mitts of gravity fumbling after their missing mass. Life with its directives, us with our stories, all the crowds and swarms coveting every direction and hungering for anything that moves. The words written inside the riddle of your flesh, whispering its revelations in secret while everything blossoms and burns.