The old dead habit resurrected for a reason in remittance, I spent the day running through hoops and ideating with particular specificity. Sound and fury foolishness for the most part, a scramble to find direction outside dimensions, the muse of murder and accusations dissatisfied and occluded. The treachery is real enough, whatever the alignment of the intent. I drink some foul elixir, the reminiscence on a loop.
The physical fails, the doctor cannot seem to place the patient, mirror peer or new moon shadow. The heart sinks in knowing, the floor at once out from under, the truth reconstituted from the gaps in the record. Stratum after stratum of ephemera and marginalia, this sinkhole soul and recollected crimes. Going nowhere as the trail grows cold and the night stands up on its hind legs. It can’t because my kind can’t be trusted.
Make the most of the moment. Make it last, make it count. Time on your hands that never wash clean. Cat gotten tongue that never could tell it true. The candle blown out with wish scented breath, the flame sputters and coils smoke. Could be it has at long last caught up with you. Could be that the beat keeps skipping, a stone slung against the surface of the see. Maybe the moon drowned at last, and the prophecy has shown up drunk and unapologetic. Take a number and save the date.
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