Now it has been too long

Now it has been too long to remember where you fit into a particular denouement, lost in the middle of an unbroken day, a grid of locations and sun angles or hypnotic street light clouds, that you played some key role in perhaps, the significance of it, now that you see the horizon high above the alley, would surely be better at the convergence of someone else and a long faint story. You walk briskly, steam fired and frenzied, each step a spasm that runs through your body, shake yourself apart, into the thick night. The night is at your back, darkness before you, and thoughts and bits of terrain or light are lost throughout, and lost within them are effects untethered and cascading. They sing out in a wordless and silent accusation of friction and movement, not knowing where you are to them or where they are to the causes that make them seek you, they rumble noiselessly in place, never moving, lingering implications. Walking through the dark parting in pure black sand smoothly around you, you leave nothing behind. The night closes behind you. The past is what you wade through. It doesnt lift you up. These things you shelter in your body, you know them as yours, and when you are torn to pieces, when you dry out in the arid end and your fine blood, the secret of your vessel, yours, blows into the dunes, the things you thought were yours the least, the shoes, the figurines, coins, stamps, and rooms, are all that are left to make you exist. Those traces are barely describable, nameless things, just things. You havent been observant enough to populate the passings and surfacings of those things with their own particularities. You dont recognize their physical shapes enough to let them exit from into an electric being that is inside of you that builds charges with other things, that changes and not longer relies on the signal of its shape, it becomes yours, you can erase from it what you need to, it can be a benign presence, emptied of itself into you. Things are your enemies. They are silent. You are stricken by every thing. In the apartments lining the road loom significant collections of old junk and useful placeholders. You experience is impermeable. The scraps of parallel lives, and worse yet, abandoned lives, jeer passively. Each hurls unintelligible secrets about you, each is unidentifiable horror. The world exists outside of you. It is terrible and relentless. You are not observant enough to recognize the same things again and again and each new glimpse down the road is filled with those old apartment hauntings, covered with your fingerprints, swimming in your spit, and bound with your old hair. What do you expect it to do as you leave it behind. Things are still. Secrets need destinations.

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