The blank page is imagined. A wind that descends like a seabird on some landlocked town, a gull bitterly voicing its contempt for what the sea does not provide. It falls in wave after wave of failed words, it gathers, a slice of static freed in the mind. Some sort of ritual or homage, a remainder from a language long lost, a notion from that place where history and reality were the same. It is the press of gap and time, the dismay of creation awaiting.
I never knew you before your apostasy, can not name the claim that changed you. Only the agnosis of your gaze, that fire that makes one ache for burning. Somehow always upon that cusp of the flag set aflame and the native anthem, always dancing on the brink of some perpetual fall. Something in the weight of lips parted, in that fateful glimpse of ready teeth. Something in the argument you always were, in the condition I was always in.
Here on sad mountain we always await each change in the sky, our heads rising in flitting hope. The roads are slow and often end in apathy, some little room, some dying light. We huddle in the icy light, we burn in the heartless dusk. We say what we say as if in jest or prayer, all this air going somewhere, all this world dissolving into time. We scatter our words, wanting others.