This is the chill air of a bright spring morning. This is blue skies and fingers aching and numb. The morning given over to squirrel and sparrow. The dogs patrolling with their teeth and toys. Bundled with the swaying trees and the blinding heavens, this day strung along on the icy wind, the songs in your skull cross the songs on your list. The coffee cooling steams ferociously, busting down the doors to change states. Evening out with the atmosphere, the black coffee going from hot to luke between sips, a bitter kiss for unloved lips.
The bent of the day all glass and plastic, the hour unfurls as forecast. The Delphi of global satellites and monkeying with the magnetosphere calls it again. Now the dapple of summer bloom and tree shadow, now the scintillation of leaf and breeze. This Kinetoscope feel of the stuttering reel projected on the redwood fence suggesting an ambling animation, a flip book take on time painting place. You make a few fists between sentences, the dull senses and sharp thoughts ringing out with every breath. Just because you’re done doesn’t mean you’re dead yet.
The words keep coming whether full or spent. The words are only ever passing through, flowing through the meat mind, dribbling down your chin. Their need is there, but it is only for some approximate you, some similar selves. The multiplicity of the individual, the mathematics that serve the ravenous symbols, slipping into every available being. So you sip cold coffee, so you hug yourself tight, the continuity in need of a vessel to spill. The day bold and broken, tainted by the gun barrel breath, the steel of a tomorrow that will never come.
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