Awake to the shake and gasp of the gray traces, the broad trawl of dreams receding, leaving this strange and tattered world behind. It takes a minute to find the time and gather the ghost, sitting up still weary, acknowledging the gentle errors of the flesh. An ache here, a tether there, this sweet complicity of being an alarm of its own. Morning arrives, scratching at the windows. Morning arrives, before the fire finds the dawn.
The news of the day is a host of usual horrors. Death and strife and mayhem, an old friend slavering in his madness. Lose a little every day, life and all these wild appetites. Failings compound and virtues return to the age of myth. The strain of this long insurgency, facing that inevitable fall. The flesh aches and yelps. The sun is nowhere in sight.
Summon the shadows and shed this stillness. Waste this motion like all the wasted moments right before. It is a grand extravagance, to lean hard into each theme, taste the blood, feel the breakage. It is luxury's own soul to wear this ruinous continuity, this life and this living yet again. The neck pops, stiff in every attempt. The hip wails, angry at gravity and mass. It begins with these cold and lonely hands, finding their way in the dark. It endures long after the tardy sun has fled to its kingdom in the West. Futility a fuel, the direction is given. This reckless day is loosed again.
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