It’s the smallness of wanton regiment that reminds one of the ever-approaching nothingness and the proximal moments stacked ahead to bar their dusk
The sound of the voice that should fill a last hour and the logistical implications of what if have come to weigh upon me as the leaves turn as the crawling things go, and leave me with peace enough to hear such silence and reflect upon the crowding teeth in my skull and permanence
Eager, on the Milo with his gun hear ‘em waiting for fun for the dust obscuring the dark passing the Lord’s time on a VCR I saved my voice for Revelation on the terrace