the direction is secondary. it's the terrain that narrates. this bleak fairy tale. all acute metaphors and blunt ironies. chasing the chaotic motion of the loss.
pretending to know each other. in nervous stabs. shallow cuts that leave no workable math.
the monster in her bed. quietly killing. seldom ghosts.
the predator not obvious. the hun soft and fatal. bee stings and puddles manupulating the storm. the road all sweat and stubbornness. as she spirals out from the edge. reaching for the embrace of a fickle gravity that too quickly forgets. what has fallen.
the vast. laid out before us. as we frantically negotiate how small we are.
the pictures. the colors. the sound. all emotional collateral. against the eternal void. each touch a single number in a perpetual lottery of moments.
going nowhere. just places finding us.
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