Somedays you sink with the sunset; somedays you rise with the moon. No-one knows what is up with you. All the birds and the beasts take their separate measures, watching for which way you may lean. All the robots and the machines note your variations, trying to get ahead of the math. All your bones listen carefully to the stress and the strain, the press and pull of your being, and they keep all rumor to themselves. The sky turns gray and the coffee is cold. No-one knows what to say next.
The winds are high and the birds a-flutter, all but placed there in the sky. All but shorn from their roosts. The gutters are jumbled with gravel and trash, plastic bags up on their hind legs sprinting for freedom at long last. The snips and tatters of the world are scattered about, taking their leave in depths and narrows, spread through the world with the speed of song or story. No-one asks you for fear of what you might say. No-one looks you in the eye for fear you won't look back.
Another day has gone to heaven. Another set of numbers detailed and detained. You walk like a fever, you wander like a revival, singing soft and sweet to your own secreted notion of a soul. You stand apart, farther than any distance can say. You wear the next shadow, cull the cloth of each silhouette. You stand still, slowly gracing the star-stabbed sky with your gaze. You turn away from the watching of the world, moving further into this fresh night.
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