I poke around these catacombs, the sad repetition of a troublesome thought, the ever echoing plainness of these depths. I pause in the autumnal hush before the boundaries of winter come crowding in. The mock gravity of the lingering mirror, the inevitable hell of some teen-age self. The silly pretension of my narrow despairs, so ardent and urgent and lost. The humdrum of hubris lived with day to day. The sacred precious vistas of some yearned for better way, always that longed for movie ending kiss.
Most of my artifice is at least in earnest. It may be tricks and quirks, but that is half the magic. I might be making much ado, but that is at last some craft. I skip the facts to tell the truth, wandering into these storybook woods. I make the path, by brick or breadcrumb. I might look to the distance, but my feet don't miss the ground. I lay my eyes to tempt and calm the clock. I miss a lot and still surprise.
The days wane, my attention wanders. I stare and stare into windows and through walls. All these ghosts of my best intentions. All those tombstones of spent intent. The ritual hi-light reel, full of breathless perfection and ruthless wisps of pure heartache. The sad depositions and the mindful pyrotechnics, the edge and end, the bridge of the song always such a steady blue. The night grows deep, all pretty pictures and bottomless skies. Never before have I been so lonesome. Never before have I stayed so long.
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