The day begins, bright as any dance, and all of the sudden it is dusk. In between is still a mystery. Some sad avalanche, some measure of happenstance and dust. No-one knows for sure. The world is painted on eggshells, the world expands as smoke. We are stuck dreaming up alibis. We are trapped in wheels of choice and chance.
I take the bitter medicine, I choose the cure whittled from disease. The dog down the street just barks and barks. My vision dims and my heart grows certain. So much is pain, so much more beauty. I spit and I steam and the music plays on. Night founders, glutted on the remnants of the sky. Soon all that is left is the stars. Far off promise, distant wonder. All that can be salvaged to crumple and cherish. Another love letter to the empty that abides.
This is my craft, this is my emblem. Pressed against the brittle ribs, caught in the tide of breath, the crusts I should prize, the oblivion that marks my passing. Ink scratched out on the drift of pulp and confusion. Time that abides nothing and hasn't an enemy in the world. I scarcely blink as the sickness claims me. The night so bright and lovely as the clock runs out.
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