It is always hung upon these whims, the vagaries of this nearest faraway star and the chance reactions of the atmosphere. Tethered to the weather, plodding along with the drift of wind and cloud. The day is bright, the day is gray, the day is doomed to be reborn in the crackling shells of its just shed selves. The sun presses its dry lips against my fresh dead flesh, making no distinction between blessing or curse.
This mood then flits, limb to limb, tree to tree. It searches for a position to fix, searches for some thing to wear as battle standard or thorny crown. Swaddling gray or blade's edge blue the feeling will find its fit. Whether wonder or blunt transgression, whether beauty or beast, this heart clots with thieved alibi and stolen hope. Calm always coming before some green change or yellow bolt. Balance always the sign post of some impending fall.
I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know what to make of the day. Each slip of perception, each glazing of stray inkling might wind-up my pole star. What I find might be anything save the way. I feel the bones knitting and the bile as it rises. I feel the sway of green fleetings and brown endurance flow between the boundaries of blood and brain. The warm kiss of sunlight already changing the nature of my skin. The warm kiss of sunlight reminds and remains, the story following another star entirely.