Night ebbs in the darkest moments, etched in the these myths and frailties. The fault-line obsessions, those trembling edges. That hint of yearning crafted from the precipice, the rough endings, those unknown depths. Cold water swallowed in gulps at the extinction of that cosy dream. Warm air swallowed in gasps, the waking world somehow always so demanding. This is that hour, blunt and enduring. This is that moment, tattered and alone.
We grow accustomed to the weight of this ruin. We learn the country of these mindless relics in our hair and eyes. It is the story we carry, swaddling our shoulders, hunched against gravity's sway. We reach and we wander, we touch and we spurn. These proud virtues rained down in litanies only the history within the glimpse of sickness in hot pursuit. This continuity that last fuel we find, that desert wandered, that covenant rent.
It is the twist of these meanings, the settled village where all mystery begins. The darkness that eases, this light that aches. All the hints left hidden in the bare distance. I write as we all do, to the leavings of indifference and habit. I write that story where I watch it unravel. Stroke by stroke, stitch by stitch. The questions gather, settled on the line.
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