conversation is a shade that spooks your understanding. you could be stoic in an autumn paradise of fire, but subtext will make pretty ruins of it. something for your memories to peruse, while you avoid the jagged bits. but they’re still there, and they’ll always want attention.
“yea, tho I walk through the valley of the shadow of HER…” [pause] “what was it that I’m not supposed to fear?”
some glimmering nightmare in black & purple. some lovely spasm in viscera drenched with amber undoing and lack of sleep. or, was it lack of purpose? headlights turn my eyes into stained glass, and the world blurs on by. normally there is music, but tonight the music is this frenetic thoroughfare. with its exhaust and its distant screams and its unholy quiet.
“where would you rather be? what sights would you rather see?” says Ol’ Man Gutter, his wisdom coming off like a tyrant without an army.
the night doesn’t need us to survive. it has constant tribulation to stay alive. something for the shadows to scoff. something for the eyes to pierce. and ultimately flee in bewildered glee. glazing over with exquisite anxiety. and, the calendar is the only gospel worth scrutiny.
these plaintive skins are no longer their own. they belong to the mysteries that suck on their pores like angelic leeches. an entirely new form of sustenance, enriched by foreign bleaches and everyday deformity. just remember the mountain doesn’t know that you are climbing it.
“tonight is only what tomorrow is not.” says Ol’ Man Gutter with his ipecac eyes and his breath that smells of dead flowers. “imagine this,” he says, “right now, someone is having the best moment of their life.” the bruised sky cannot help but unhinge before such brutal optimism.
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