Another hour has fallen from the table. Another day begins, the clockwork turning with dogs barking and the weather just aching to change. Fingers stumble over the same set of smudged keys and unknown reasons. A light burns in some window, someone steps gingerly upon an unmarked grave.
Water has its spells and steel its persuasions. The distant sea and the beckoning blade. All the bled out dreams and notions of cold tableaux. A compulsion never the same thing as a freedom, though they are much the same taken from nature. No-one knows, and still offer wan prophecy. No-one knows, and they would rain the world with their frogs and gods. The hand is only stayed because the sickness demands its action. Survival at its most perverse.
Sleep is another battlefield, too fraught with fire and ache to handle along with all these waking hurdles. Words are empty and ephemeral, spat out symptoms, droned out directions to places that no longer exist. The clock keeps winding down. We all wait, when there is nothing else we can think of. We all wait, claiming every little fire as our own.