The hours boil away, the world burns out. Midnight is a distant country, moonlight a wish spent on a star. This slow surrender, this endless descent, everything listed and lost. The tinny transformation of digits into language, echos painting the walls with their spit and fizzle. Heart and heat clinging to the empty air.
There is more than these words, greater motions than the dull tides of our philosophies. We make up whole hierarchies, stacked ideas and longings and claim them as our lives. We trade the world around us for the pretend solemnity of these sovereign spooks. Heaven only the smoke of every wasted sacrifice. Hell always this burning of the remembered or the forgotten.
This is the memoir of meat and bone. This is the soul of blood and burn. The essence is only the mass and the matter. The truth is only the grease on the plate. The truth is only the gravel on the road. No more questions, no answers at all.
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