*stolen from Rilke, not that he cares now
Late summer music coming through the speakers now. Confusing with such snow pouring down at streetlight level. A week is long; a week is time like saltwater taffy stretched as far as you can swallow. Not as far as the years you’ve seen. Delve into the past and balk at words since forsaken. Self-censor then and hope for the best. Look to fire’s cleansing fangs for answers you cannot give. Dreams, it’s always been dreams that fuel those flames. Conquer them and you’ll rid yourself of answers. Thus ridden will you fall. Thus ridden will you never wake. Even yet, what words we write. Words in spite; words dull, not bright.