This morning the moon was painting in glowing albedo, filling in the cracks between the clouds. The hour freshly arbitrary, the air a dull gray drowse anchored to each parcel and the pavement, roots dangling deep within the breathing of the earth. I grumbled through the routine, though the hour was odd and alight with strange beauty. I picked and pawed at the fittings of the ritual, and the day filled in the gaps. It is one thing, then the next. Just as you expected, but new and novel somehow yet. The words go everywhere.
Later the meditation settled upon need, the lacks and the druthers, the whips and the wonders. Head bowed as the evidence mounts, droplets darkening the dust, black plastic stippled with gathering beads. The drizzle a mere graying of the air, humidity as much optics as meteorology, the dark of the subdued sky as the cloud cover occludes the afternoon. Cold drops of rain on the back of a bare head. You ink in your invocations as breath escapes.
The space is vast between us, but it could stand to be vaster. Strangers arranged haphazardly across the face of the sphere, aliens exchanging abstractions that nearly synch up in post. I list all of my absolutes, give the full crypt keeper, list all my kinds of kryptonite. I’ll tie both hands behind, if you insist. It is the artifice that exhausts, compounds the pounding repetitions with self satisfied palliatives, a whole genre of mantras and cognitive dissonance. I awake; the day is lost.
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