The time runs down, all our days a mingling of mistakes of action and mistakes of thought. Tomorrow ends up our only orphan, all the lights left on and the fan blowing soft. The ants on the high branches, the sweat trickling down my shoulders and chest. The mythology of the moment forgiveness and the fleeting glimpse of object permanence. The facts of the matter lost too long ago to measure.
Leave me to the open air, let me lay beneath the stars at night. There is no better use to bind me. The blue moods, the red rages, the black expanse between immodesty and remorse-- the machine can be counted on to replicate each failure perfectly. There are impulses and motives to color the scene, aims to each point and shoot simplification, remnants of archived purpose rooted in meat and bone. The sky can say grace while the earth shifts and swallows. The night will play me out.
The calendar fills up with poison, random number provide all the reason ever caught. Crowds gather and crowd dissolve, ant hill sermons from mountain prophets, heaven just the glitter of broken glass on the curb. The wind takes its portion in dust and droplets, the rain leaves its calling card in deluge and flood. Tell me all your tired secrets. Sell me all your imaginary friends. I will go where-ever the words wash up once they have served their purpose. I will follow whatever star still burns.