The day is cool, the air bites bitterly at any flesh it finds. All the stars are out, taking their time, doing their part. Every breath is burdened with this sludge of meat and water, blood slow and secretive, bone dense and curt. It is the tone of confession and the tangle of crime. Breathing belabored with the usual punch and gasp that the common cold requires. The tension of need, the release of tears.
It is clear to me I missed my mark. It is plain to see how deep the mistakes go, how far they wander. The chain of evidence, so full of gaps and weakness. The line of the heritible, so full of blind alleys and dead-ends. The blood too strange, the ghost too gone. The poetry and the prose have all played out. If there is a next step, I do not see it yet.
I cough and spit and crawl along, no natural grace or human ambition left. Sickness on top of illness, like the cherry on a pretty please. Only the clarity of confessed confusion. Only the direction learned from being broken again and again. Alone for so long every thought seems singular. Lost for so long any light will do. The year slipped past, another year signed on. Another number offered, another countdown begun. All this change, and the season stays the same.