One by one the days drift past, caught on the fickle breeze, glittering in the sun. The days burst and flower, the days fruit and lay fallow, they slide through your fingers or cleave through your bones. The heart bakes on the sidewalk, the heart ripens on the vine. Something about the weather being on the mend. Something about spring clinging to the air.
There isn't a place left that doesn't press up against it. There isn't a mood I have that hasn't been worn through. I work the angles, I follow my route, I wander the streets that I am stuck with. I watch the skies and cling to my habits. I swallow ink and shadow, divining the sort of sickness I seem to crave. I write down these snips and scars, wading through the details, waiting for the devil to make his claim.
I exude gloom, I wreak ruin, I am scarred and harried and always a little blue. I am bad luck and poor company and prone to the beating of horses long after they have passed. The world does not hold bounty enough to alter all that is wrong with me. Yet I am among the living, and still among the lucky of the world. I am granted favor despite it all, graced by these fading days. Something in the story best left untold.