We arrive between cataclysms, at the gracious side of great devourings, and just like that we become the dreaming. Beneath another too soon blue and the fresh breathing green, the restless belly and the road of life. We run our mouths and our learned routes until we have to rest our heads, something to serve as shelter, the respite of dreams and some pleasure if we’re lucky. Strewn about, concussed and useless in the service of ghosts, a few shovel ready from intent to entity. We’re told it all adds up to something, god knows think nothing of it.
The sun speak to the skin, the cold whispers to the bone. We are lost and found, pursued and followed and left alone, dashed and ragged and a sight to see. Golden amid the worlds great fortunes, stubborn beneath the debris fields and the collateral madness. The map and the moment, the ache of our trajectory, the mass of these fleeting impacts. Biographies and betting slips and every giddy conceit and horrible onslaught ever. Every day evens out. Each night adds more.
It is close to 7pm on an April afternoon. I sit, a tangle of aches and appetites, feeling the sharp of the smoke and the chill in the air. Cigar sitting to the front of the senses, eyes poised tight towards the periphery, longing in alignment with the lay of the land. This idle here in the teeter of blood and breath, this sediment of collision and sentiment, this season of being the uncoiling of the burn. We gather our forces of one side or the other, follow the tides of flags and famine across the rubicon. Every day it’s the same old thing.