It is gleaned slowly, this bit of cloth, this slip of soul. The heavy hearted ache of the earth, the stubborn silence of the tenser metals. That pull that harrows through the slabs and the sparks, the haunted house feel of seeing someone familiar gazing from a stranger's eyes. Day by day the reserves are drained. Year by year the treasures are pawned. They ask for the keys and your cooperation. It is an adjustment you will have to make, at long last so devastatingly free.
That is the trouble with the universe, everything having to go somewhere. These flecks of bone and meat, empty eyes and tufts of skin. Dust once, dust again, the journey always the story left mingling with the in-betweens. The road earned and the road owed, stop signs and open intersections. Lists of things and heaps of things and forgotten things never again to mention. Big enough it may as well be endless. Big enough to hold a few eternities and still have room to lose a few. Look at this map and try not to find a monster.
So I bide my time with the parting breeze, feel the wind blow through. The slow burn of desiccated flesh, the long haul of ache and fall. I trace the shape of the last incantation. I watch as further words are marked and swept away. Sweat beads slowly, cooled by the stingy whispers and the off-color remarks the season must have saved up. The world cools slowly as the air warms and starts. It spins and spins, breaking bolts and kicking sparks. Every day a sacrifice, every day a savior.