The road unwound, the day has settled into the earth. Traffic shows no signs of abating. The fresh injuries mingle with the scars. The colors have all gone to ground. There is no story, there is no telling. Trouble has the whole night to brew.
The whole day we returned time and again to the earth. We struggled with our muted palette of madness and sad repetition. We scratch away, through invective and assault. It wasn't only the world left turning. It wasn't only the tide run riot. Our mission is little but endure.
The hours stretch, and I am sore and I am sleepy. I am wasting words where none suffice. I owe much to good friends and great comrades. The work we do, the line we hold, it would be too much without their strengths and their mercies. I hold this ground as the weakest of vessels. I bind these lapses and demolitions, my own clock winding down. Time only the sickness and the cure.