In the dream my apartment is dank and old and you were dead for three days as I recorded the progress. Skin yellowed then purple. I didn't leave my bedroom once. Just me and flowery wallpapers decaying and the observation of a dead body until at the very end I walked out to go to the bathroom and it was darker still. It occurred to me to be frightened or claustrophobic or something like that. Where was I? How was this my life? How do I get out?
The study of estranged skins through daily phrases. A mantra to history, so imprinted I am now it. Lovingly hover over your visage, even in death, not a moment forgot.
nEarly darkness, another solstice. Every one brings death.
Even in the new spaces, witness, as if through glass, total conclusion. Look back through the end of a rocket whose wick burns nearer, taking in the last of what's left to take while sipping hot cocoa and chai. Lernt perfection in the marbling of sugary foam along the edges of my mug.
For what I've done. For what I haven't done.
It seems so slow, but it's not to be mistaken. Still places are kernels of silence, respite from the raucous vibration of storm propulsion which begs to ship me alight. A long good by a quick fare well.
(out of darkness)