this slate can never be erased

Foment angst so there is a thing to describe, not straight nor flat nor dull nor the same as before, but colored instead with the red of madness.  Like Dillard says, stalk the gaps.  But sometimes there’s waiting to be done.  Blank days, empty months, they shape themselves into forms you will recognize in time.  I can’t even pretend to care anymore about the empty words flaking down around me, stuffing my mouth with cotton ideas, my head so ready to explode its vitriol across the table, spreading over your useless papers, seeping through the fabric of your dress pants.  My internal voice so hoarse from screaming the vilest curses I can barely think just a word when I finally throw my leg up over the handlebars in defeat and make it all a shrinking dot behind me.  I’m hollowed out from the inside, your words carved out whatever mattered and replaced it with a frothy foam devoid of substance.  I sit and wait, sit and wait.  There may be nothing out there, nothing at all, but I still sense the madness, up in the corners, in the late night hours, triggers ablaze in the dark circles around your eyes.  I seize upon it and bite down to suck it dry.  I will fill myself back up, every time, no matter how many times you empty me. 

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