The sun goes down and everybody has dropped the ball. I don't know the color of the sky, or the way the landscape shone and faded as the light dispersed. I don't know a thing about the forecast storm or the rumblings to the west. For someone that traveled no farther than thirty yards today, I am all over the map. For someone without any information, I sure seem to have a lot to say.
There are shadows on the ceiling. There are books stacked upon the floor. I am still like a stone, washed in electric light. I am quiet like a corpse, laid out on clean sheets. I smell of sweat and dog and smoke. Indolent flesh and an unsettled mind. Idle words spoken to no-one at all.
Another day has slipped through my grasp. The wheel has turned again without note. No pen or picture, no grace or regret. Hours shed like smoke, every memento a kind of fire. I am the levity of meat, the weight of rumor. Maybe tomorrow the words will match the deeds. Maybe tomorrow I will tell you something true.