Time thickens, it drawls and mutters in the shine of dust and the distance of dreams. It creases the wind with its sniper's focus and its lawyer's heart. Ticking clocks and clucking tongues, all my tomorrows misplaced and disordered. I am lost in my own thin skin. I am propped against all motive and intent. The sickly crawl of every hour, drowning every emotion save one.
I am gone, in this deft and loquacious blue, the startling hue of a sky on the march. I am gone, a shell and an opinion pointed towards the dimming east. I am empty when I aim, the words spilled on the floor and scattered about shabby furniture. This gathering of tumult, this slathered heap of dead pets and blown kisses. All of these letters, all of this misspelt fury, caught in these gusts and pauses.
These lamentations are the worst of indulgences. They seek to leaven bitterness with reflection, seek to build upon emptiness what I could not craft in the world. Wheels with-in wheels, these shabby infections and dismal cults. The radiant and the willful, and then the tattered rest. Pop songs that bring tears unbidden. Recording each absence until there is nothing left to say. Then saying nothing just the same.
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