the bottles are piling up behind my desk (i'm saving them to build a secret glass ladder to the rooftop, so that when it falls in the wind i can leap to the ground and make mosaics), and this pillbox of crayons is leaving my lips a waxy green, but i still can't seem to think beyond dirt roads and the squint in yr eyes when you wake shivering in the dew.
all these things we write as if to say that a mortal does in fact, in the most literal sense, live only in the moments, simply because we are mortals and thus by definition subject, without warning, to erasure. (a tram barreling down the tracks in an eastern european city, or a car tumbling over and over, near an american coast. trembling fingertips.)
is it actually freedom to loose yrself from that which binds you to this world? the tiniest things expand in ripples. the largest, too.
the eruption of the tambora volcano in 1816 flung ash to the world so that nations faraway lived under darker skies - dust in the streets, red snow, declining crops. the breaks in yr voice flung my plans into disarray. what is there left to say?
lately i'm remembering that winter of spiders growing out of carpets and fortresses with walls begging to be scaled, smoke unfurling over cold beaches at night and the small confines of our cozy mornings.
i can't find my oldmanglasses but maybe that's for the best cuz blurry is always beautiful.
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