The day after complete exhaustion sets in, that scattered feeling of quick delivery. If it doesn't happen immediately than it seems it may never. Countless hours spent in confused acceptance of the confusion. There are so many things to learn and settling with a brief description of life events can suffice for the time being. The depth comes later. In dark rooms, alone. There was a fear of being crushed by motor vehicle on the blackened streets at the late hours between a saturday night and a sunday morning. The arrested movement and the slow motion convenience store exchange. There is a guilt overwhelming. But no one will know. It will eat at me like a cancer but there is no reason to tell a lie if I never allow myself the excuses of a long weekend, a new flavor, a drunken ambition and a convenience beyond normalcy. The opportunity will never present itself again in such a fashionable light. It burned my throat and my lungs, walking brisk through the night, the spiders develop webs straight down from the overhanging branches, and I walked right through them. Wondering what creatures I may have introduced to my ecosphere in the rented prism. There is nothin but water and juice although a night cap in several sense sounds rather right at this moment. The night is perfect for a rekindling of passion. For a refuel, a battery recharge. What will I draw up tonight? Will there be plans for a distant, yet vaguely concrete future? Will there be sleighbells through the speakers, illustrating our arrival? No sense worrying about the perfect english grammar. There are beauties involved in the glaring mistakes that make characters so endearing.
I flew through a transition on the dark stage in the dim lights. There is evidence of the transformation. When we release the music as the opiate for the masses, the skull-numbing, brain-melting, patterns and currents that explore the darkest recesses of human minds without taking anyone from a good to a bad place. There is only a soundtracke with bittersweet intent that accumulates over time as the memories burn themselves into retinas and reserve banks of recollection. There are many stacks of files. We never access all of them. At once at least. There would be too many people buried in warm nostalgia. Or cold regret.
File cabinets topple over like dominoes.
