The trip back - numbing. Driving has historically been such a visceral experience. But I've been given evidence I feel too much these days. And the wound? Looked pretty bad, didn't it? Not to worry; I hardly feel a thing. That tragic-wistful crusted over, is flaking off. A muscle contracts: now it's my smile, and a sigh to circulate about your snarls. On the road, we're all insectile, flying in formation, edging each other out of position, except when we're held like stagnant bathwater at the mercy of the occluded eight-lane asphalt promenade. I give in to a chuckle, watching a woman singing in her car who is laughing, watching a man gesticulating wildly as he speaks on his hands-free.
Somewhere on the razorblade periphery, rolling forward with desperate speed [and though you might be sapped and sick] there are thoughts: spent bullets making audacious leaps for their casings: spent thoughts, the same ones wound round your mind in tightly coiled tendrils countless times, they grow threadbare and dissipate - infinite little pieces, nonsensical now, just pieces hanging like mist, low cloud cover - and it doesn't take much to kick up the dust once more. I've got thoughts in the think tank, facts in the factory, a path to my pathos, and arms in the armory, some sense in this century as a sentient commodity some entity sent me, spent me said to me - -
At the heartbroken, almost tauntingly reliable disappointment, there's a moment of clarity when our universes go crashing one against the other [oh, you cute little universe, you!] - and I know I've seen it all before. Steel-jawed in an absurdly defiant gesture of misplaced hope. A single, staggering sentence adhering to the viscous, humming obstinacy - and fucking everything gets thrown into question.
I'd rather be a cynic than an idiot.
The kind of weather I'd been waiting for followed me home - fading, feeble light and brittle grey sky overhead looking like tousled sheets, swollen bodies beneath, all the taste and scent of burst fruit, split and gaping, bulging hearts hanging open, a bedframe for my blunders, the sun's confined to shoeboxes in dresser drawers licking truth from obscenity while the wind's husky whispers rasp laughing: "You think 'souls' are any more real than gods?" Pressing myself toward milky horizon, the babbling cacophany carried me through until I was given to the braying, bending notes of the train passing me at last.
And I'd still like to hear your song - though its now late (no matter what your clock or mine reads) and I've met you already, at least a thousand times.