I know that it is the broken record. I know that it has been done to death. I know the pieces, and I know the holes. The words all fall, dead leaves and heady hubris. The words all lose traction, used so poorly and so free. There is the day, and there is this night. Nothing left to reach towards or flinch away from, the sickness so coarse and inchoate. Nothing to recommend me to yesterday or tomorrow.
The sky glows, the light dwindles. Nothing pauses to rest. Traffic that stifled still stifles, crowds that remind of wounds and lapses still plod on and on. The dense tangle of the empty hours, the busy vacancies of all my incompetence and my stumbling. The lows absurdly low, the highs fleeting and sorrowful from inception. I write in dull circles, finding only the static whispers and the stylus pops. This last habit, hung from the wires. This last habit, arguing for its own immolation.
The chemistry itself is all about subtraction. Sick and sad, I waste a good cigar and a lovely dusk. Smoke rising as night falls. Maybe there were stars. Maybe the blotted out moon clutched at the throat of the sky. There isn't anything I can say for sure. These same hollow threats ring through my skull, these same clumsy sentences never ruled as time served. Again this ordinary devastation, this failed cloture. Such terrible beauty, such pretty notions. I turn and turn.
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