What cold light is.
Aging past desperation. Someone’s idea of excitement is a rusty barrel of boredom. Searching for air to breathe, gasping for time to breathe. Hoping like a dying man. Choosing like a prisoner.
Writing notes, pathetic to the immensity of slipping time. It helps to hold on to that dream this morning. But the immensity sees the notes away, displacing all things.
The grieving of the stoic face. Someone’s smile that is impossible to share. Running to and fro futility and stupor, up and down promises and neglect.
The quiet air full of prequel wishes.