Midnight Dancing All Through The Day

They met in the park, doing the equivalent of two dogs sniffing each others' arse ends, barely able to contain their mutual excitement. Besides just sniffing, people toss glances, smile willingly and display some wild variety of body language, all at the meeting and appraisal of that other person they're with. In the case of love, or love hoped for, the approach and method of sniffing a particular individual must continually be refined. Some throw the force of whatever they may be right out into the open. All at once. Often that approach is overwhelming, so a paring down is needed.

"Hello." Tiffany twinkled.
"I remember you from before." Allen shuffled.
"Didn't I see you sitting in a booth last Saturday? Who was with you? I didn't see anyone." Tiffany was already on to something.
"I wasn't with anyone. Well, I was kind of waiting for someone."
"Who."
"I don't know. Someone might have sat there."
"But no one in particular?"
"No. It would have been interesting for a stranger to have sat there."
"I agree. Where are you from?"
"You know, I don't know, but you know that song Sweet Caroline by Neil? I can't remember a moment of my womb-time without having heard that song. It's rather a natural part of my thinking process by now. It helps me focus and work out answers. If I can't get what I want right away, the song kind of stands for the noise of my brain processing."
"Wow. I don't think I'll ever have a favorite song. Maybe some old suite or fiddle breakdown."
"And now I don't remember you from before. You seem entirely different."
"I'm inclined to be different nearly every day. I don't like to talk a lot. Do you mind if we just sit here for a while?"
"Sure."

She motioned to a spot in the grass. He watched her sit down first, and then he did a sort of backwards roll beginning on his rear and landing on his back. Two leaves dropped slowly. Both noticed this but were entirely unaware of the child riding without training wheels for the first time in the park below them. They would have liked to have seen that. The child would have enjoyed their encouragement.

He couldn't freeze time, and she couldn't make time tread more slowly or less conspicuously. Time was busy wasting itself. Rattling off its own counter and leading us to who knows where.

He tapped the bit of grass across from his hip on his left side. She kept the time in her head and imagined bongo accompaniment.

"Hmmmmmm." He breathed.
"You're exactly right," she murmured.

A Day Without Bookends

Thomas Giles Honeywalk had absolutely no problem with staring in one spot all day long, drifting from one half sketched daydream to the next. He simply and easily cared nothing for how others looked upon him. He cared what they thought about other things, but if a thought was expressed about his disposition or behavior, his eyes would turn inward, leaning back a bit into his head, resting on all that eye juice and nerves, and contemplate how naked could he get in front of this person without scaring them off. And then he would proceed to find out.

Honeywalk had his own way of doing everything. He never did the dishes if he was not dizzy, so he had gone about collecting a variety of ways of becoming dizzy. His favorite method was putting on Beethoven's Fourth Piano Concerto Movement Rondo and pretending that he was guiding 187 aircraft to land simultaneously in an area one mile in radius. Post this exercise, dizzy he was.

Feeding himself was another grand adventure. For this he needed help. Caroline Butterbaum gave a bravado performace three times every day. She was the invading army, placing him firmly on the defensive. Hoisting a spoon, filled with gruel or somesuch foodstuff, her objective was to gorge his stomach until he lay sleeping and heavily breathing. Usually she succeeded, but if he could help it, it was her stomach that would be gorged and he who would munch on some Triscuits until the next round.

He uses a katana to trim his nose hair. Recontstructive surgery is always scheduled for the afternoon on these days just in case. In many cases.

At 4pm he fluffs each and every stuffed animal in his room. And your room if you'll let him. He has his eye on them though. He knows to watch and be sure that they do not become too friendly. He learned the hard way that a randy stuffed animal is a terrible force of nature. But even forces of nature need fluffing. And so he treads the line.

As for sleeping, who could bring me proof that he does it? Certainly no one close to him. Somehow they always manage to fall asleep before him, though he flails and flips as if he's fighting off an enraged periodontist.

And how does he bathe? The details shall not be openly spoken of. Doing so would voilate an international treaty.

Whatever else he does throughout the day you can be sure he does it with intensity, a dollup of mystery, and a spontaneity so profound that it makes the elderly clog hop to the primal rhythm of nature and gives the young a hint on their deepest sought question.

Comments Hereafter Agreed Upon

Henry Gains was not exactly sure what he had been sorting out during the last few hours spent in slumber, but he felt the pains of it. Twisting his neck each way several times as he gained awareness of the room, he set about becoming vertical. Slowly. First he crouched at the edge of his mattress, wondering at the hints he was gathering of the new day. Things were sorted to happen. He only did not know how they would happen or what would be the consequence of their happening. What underwear was left clean became his next preoccupation. Hopefully it was a pair of his favorites. Maybe the ones with the Grinch grinning haughtily or the ones with lemmings becoming aware that they are falling endlessly.

Henry reveled in the chasing after a mystery, but he did not want to spend his entire life with an edge of sadness to his being and only wishing and pleading and hoping. Mr. Gains determined he would find Satisfaction.

He did not find it in Hope, and he found it even less in Minerva. He thought he had it in Chelsea for a while, until he found out she treasured her past lives slightly more than this one. Something kept him quiet. He knew not what, of course. Something kept him from exclaiming, from stabbing out into the heart of the world and demanding a response. He always got responses, but he never had demanded a direct one. Never demanded one that answered the core of his concern: how did I end up here? His wishes and hopes had not placed him squarely in a fit upon his mattress. Or perhaps they had played a part, but it had more to do with his family and one or more things he wished he could forget.

If by chance he crossed the way
Upon his journey to a coast or a bay
He'd surely look up, he'd surely find it right
And he'd surely slip back into the dark night.

His wishes and hopes begged for the future, begged for a new day, but the past, that is something fierce.

Henry never pledged allegiance too quickly to ideas or people. They, both in equal share, take exploring and discovering before a friendship can be established. First he had to know what he wanted. From life. From an endeavor. If he was to work with those along the way, it is not imperative that they are of a single mind, but a goal in a common direction is helpful. A loose goal, not a rule. But he saw that a certain uncompromising attitude must be present to fully realize his dreams. Despite what the people making money say. Despite what advisers may say. He must become both lawless and structured. Lawless so that his ideas are fresh and even a little upsetting, rather than stale and tried and disfiguring. When he sees those around him stare at him, not comprehending what he has just spoken of, he is proud. For he has now unleashed a new idea. Something not yet considered by one or many. And those who refuse to open their minds and accept the perhaps incoherent yet attuned melody he has strummed will still return home that night. Will still travel a bit. Will still refuse to be tickled.

His fingers are already poised, already moving, already approaching the back of the knee belonging to the world and 7 billion...somethings. It is ok to not know what we are. And Henry will strike which nerve is quickest to react. Which nerve most quickly delivers the shiver to the body? That is the one to graze. And the body will convulse. And it will not comprehend, and it may not even like it at first. But it will soon understand that the tickling cannot, and should not, ever ever ever stop.

Thinking Up

A breath of sameness sashayed by. It sashayed because it was confident of its place and particular effect. An acceptance of beauty and of joy and of sorrow, shared by hundreds or all, was contained within it. All seemed to love a certain range of things. Don't get too odd, too strange or too merry, it implied. People have no stomach for the incomprehensible. Formulas rule the day. Logic has its stranglehold on the day, using hands it prepared for its inevitable triumph.

Far away from those hands there are many who do things differently. Walk a different way, talk and sing and breathe according to the strangest rhythms. Incomprehensibility is key. They are not getting paid for what they do because it is quite different indeed.

Life is not a private joke. It is a hilarious affair with nonsense and sense intermingling with perhaps a bit of balance. The joke is shared by all, and its meaning may not be quite clear, but its lessons are impacting and powerful.

Signing up for the task of living a life is taken very seriously. There will be things to confront and uneasiness to address. Endurance is key. Simply agreeing to take the ride is what is needed. Ah, perspective, emotions, transcendence and Sasquatch. These are the essential building blocks of a life. And who knows? There is always more. Plates filled quite high, bellies already full, here come the waking eyes!

An Urge for its Day

One day he watched it all melt away. He knew what was happening and he did not try to stop it. First his bed went. It started up in flames, which burned themselves through until a sort of liquid plastic eased up to the surface. It kept deflating. He patted it once in the middle to see what it felt like. It felt like plastic. Nothing like his sleeping pad he'd spent the last nine years on.

Next went all the gifts his mother had given him. These he watched more carefully. All the stuffed toys he was not ashamed to bring along into adulthood. Of course he cared. He saw his mother in them and saw the care she'd taken to choose them. He imagined her in the store, requesting the bunny with rainbow striped eggs sewn into its feet, floppy ears on its head, from its perch about one and one half persons high into the air. All along she wondered how he would hold it, if he would like it. Was it what she wanted for him? She held it by its ears, spun it around and thought it would fit just fine into the next care package sent. She especially liked its big, brown eyes that reminded her of his. He did not want to watch this one leave. But he had to. He swore to never look away from the pain, never to back down from fulfilling what was being asked of him in any moment. The bunny split, as if rent in two, right between the eyes. One half fell, turning to mist before reaching the floor, the the other half stayed merely flat on his desk, big brown eye still taking in the world.

Pictures of his family he could not see go. Unfinished business was left. Touching them, hoping to spare them of a boiling, mysterious heat, his finger was burned, singed off the top. It is not right for this to be gone! Hand held up, the picture breathing flame, he took his fist and plunged it straight into the frame. The flame bellowed its thanks and burned through his whole hand, past the wrist. Exorcising rage and pain all across the room, he made dents where he could, and tossed other things on the fire. Those books of his, the music, the shelves, the journals, the thoughts, the memories, the embarrassments, the times as they were.

On the edge of it all he sat and watched. And wondered what to do next.

Her walk walks like her walker.

Heather spent the last several months in wild seclusion building whatever she could from thoughts and feelings. She swore to use nothing real, as what is real is already there and does not need highlighting. She spent most of the time not knowing what to do. She felt continually frustrated and shut out from whatever it is that can be termed reality. From her own self she begged and pleaded for answers, but what could come in frustration but the slow dance of static and building tension. Over and over she dropped her current approach and did something different. Anything different. Heather stopped the fostering of frustration and stepped back, allowed the pot to cool and look at things differently. Not make such a rush of things. If the present conundrum stopped being of paramount importance to solve, she found that she could be patient, let life roll on in a different way.

Prophets and storytellers could promote their answer and predictions, but little did she gain that was lasting from these. For these things came from outside of herself, and while they may have been startlingly accurate and open the heart of things, they were born of someone else's moment, not her own. Answers from another may provide a kind of support, but if they are not born from within, how can they truly steady her legs? Help from another provides a different perspective, but let it be known that what is counting breaths and feeding hints and impulses comes from within.

The race with others is a race short lived. Continually Heather found herself drawn away from others, away from their crowd and their noises and their organized lives. What became her life really had very little to do with groups and herds of people.

Attention. Please direct your attention to the following items: Yourself. The world. Your neighbor. That dog. Your brilliance. An automobile capable of sensing the rain. An hour of wretched solitude. The moment of waking. A fear worth its telling. A pattern broken forever. A chair with three legs. Pillows for comfort. The gears within, turning, propelling.

Heather had to weed out many ideas, many influences to get back to her own. Such was her life among others. Everything has an influence, a hidden grasp. A dropped opinion is a new opportunity for fresh thinking. A growth spurt will come here and there.

She found things so delightfully, playfully elusive. If the dropped hints ever became rages of warning, she would be ready. For she had tuned her ears to hear.

If she cries and you hear her wail, please do not misunderstand. It is simply the passing of something no longer needed.

She is a cloud surfer. A daytime wanderer. A rhapsodic riddler. An emissary from parts without parts.

It must never end

Pigfoot Brennan found himself walking one day. He started one way, and then quickly took the other. People all along the way. On his path, to his side, children at the front, and cyclists at the back. One boy he found to be uniquely interested in the back of a bag of chips. A young girl seemed to be falling in love with the scent of a white rose; one she would never wish to cut, but one she deeply wished to possess.

Generated Content

With far greater precision and far less aiming we do stab at the moment to create something. See the target, aim at it with a subtle necessity and let loose the arrow. The target does not always need to be hit. Imagine the wonderful mistakes that cause a bit of a jumble of things that bring about such a happy, unexpected result!

Imagine the amount of things left to say and do, and those things we will leave behind, never to speak of, act on, do again!

Do, what is in the range of your individual self to do, in the moment. And allow for the unthinkable to occur.

Speak, and in your own way, please speak.

Amounting to a Penny Apiece

And all that you have seen, and all that you have heard, let that speak through you. Let yourself be the mouthpiece for the overflow of your experiences. They will unite themselves inside you and come pouring out in whatever your profession, social and private life may be. If we let them.

While you're busy deciding whether or not to look at your feet, I'm standing up!

The king stood at the perfect vantage point in his castle, from which he could view his entire domain. And he sighed. Slumped forward a bit.

"If I may, your Highness," soothed his manservant Heath.

"If you do, then I thank you for it," King Grabbardly said.

Heath walked a half circle to the other side of King Grabbardly's throne and softened one of his shoulders back into a more royal posture. Grabbardly maintained it for a moment, and then let it drop.

"I'm afraid I have no desire for kingly attitudes this day, Heath. I should like to be alone."

"Then your people will send forth their wishes for your renewed spirit."

"Will they? But I haven't given anything from myself in years. A bit of benign guidance, but not a lot. Certainly not a great deal."

"Your Highness, your people have cultivated much under your watch. They will not let their king be laid aside by melancholy."

"Then I have become the subject, and they have become something of a teacher."

And Grabbardly pondered. It wasn't long before he threw his robe to his manservant and took a stark naked run through the town. He returned, still naked, but clutching three squirming, struggling, screaming chicken and one baby ferret.

"I've named them all after you, my dear friend Heath!"

Because that's what Kings can do!

For an instant it made all the difference in the world.

"Please, sir, do please square your underwear the other way, in honor of the manner in which His Majesty generously squares his. "

The officer looked bored.

"I do not understand why."

"It is merely tradition. You are found lacking in Tradition 41187961: heading: Squaring Underpants in the Method Used by His Royal Highness."

"Explicate the reasoning behind this. I am a simple man, but a man with the distinction of doing things my own way, the least of which is the way I square my drawers, and I do it in the fashion I do because it is of optimal comfort."

"I shall not. You have been warned. I am tempted to stand here and wait while you comply."

"Then I shall leave."

"Then I shall have to force pleasant compliance from you!"

The struggle was monstrous, the area of devastation was enormous. One man fought so hard to preserve his belief...just as the other did. In the end, the simple man's underwear was no closer to being righted than it was at the start. Only now, there is an overabundance of chaos at Number 5 Openly Road between Berry's Tea Tree and Lonsury's Cattle Branding.

The right to underwear expression and its effect on our composure is being openly debated in court. I should like to see which officials deviate from His Highness' preferred unmentionable wrangling.

That would be interesting for at least half an instant.

In sinking, it loses but half its life.

Steven follows but one rule. One rule that expands upon itself almost indefinitely.

If you cannot dance, you hug.
If you cannot hug, you keep meaning to and trying to express what you mean by that hug.
If you cannot hug, you gamble with a glance holding the truth of what you feel.
If you cannot find a way to get any meaning across, you codify a series of gestures meant to indicate warmth or amiability.
You just keep trying. The feelings are out there. They are just being denied at this time. They will return shortly.

The list of things held as fear in the hearts of us who strive to live is absurdly long. The mere posting of it piques fear of the fear. But how to deal with it straight away? And how to know that the dealing of it has been accomplished?

There are a lot of folks out there. A lot of folks. A ramble off into thought. There are people who are not welcome. There are people who are not liked. There is no one universally admired. Not continuously. Perhaps one day someone will be. There are people who are ignored and who ignore. There are people who squelch their own feelings, and those who revel in them.

There are all types, all sizes, all distinctions, all essences of grace and lack thereof. There are new words. There are old sounds. There are comforting melodies. What is there not?

Is there the opposite sound of a buzz saw? What sound would a shotgun make if it had to pick an alternative voice with an opposite meaning? Will cats ever expose their true intentions?

Will the number of ways we can walk ever truly be capped? Will people begin rough housing in public, causing scenes and dancing in the streets? Will people ever mention that which they mean the most? On what level will we be meeting today? Will candles ever stop being lit?

Will all who have come and gone ever stop coming and going? Will the space of the sky ever truly make itself accessible to us? Can we lift our hearts and our minds to expose what we fear and thus be shaken, but never upended? Are there things we should know, rituals we should perform, experiments we should execute? Should we take to singing in the streets? Should we truly do what others do not?

Will we ever remember how we felt in this moment and the last? Will the gears of power that are turned by the silent and invisible fellows ever be revealed? Will we truly think our own thoughts and know they are ours alone? Will alone ever shake off our harsh criticisms of it?

Will someone please, please, please sink the spout of dread far into the ocean so that its intentions never mix with ours. Of the multitudinous ways to live, wow, there are many.

And the hurt. And the separation. All the things that we can name will pass away forever. And all we've read, all we've learned, all we've thought, all we've striven for will turn to something else. And what will that be? I do not know, but here, today, it fills my mind.

There is no more need for language. Can we now see beyond it?

Written 11-25-05

Exit Portals
How does one find their way
To the mysterious Exit Portals?
I thought they were so well hidden
Because for one thing, they mean danger.

Why should one choose
To seek the very final Portals?
Is something too large? Too tall?
Too obtuse or small?

What enters the mind first,
Before one knows it is a portal they seek?
Have they finished all their work?
Wrapped it up, bows galore, a precise order?

Or is it because things are so askew,
That options can no longer be tried,
Or all other doors have closed,
So we see those left are the portals.

It seems a most viable option, does it not?
If you or I should need a break,
Who'd not allow it?
Portals for rest would be best.

Or what is all the fuss about?
Portals or not?
It's because what leads to the portals,
Are hallowed halls of sadness.

Each hall is built for a reason, for a person.
Each hall is built to last, so the sadness
Lingers, teaching others to stay
If only for a hushed, anxious minute longer.

My door is jealous. Of you who have already left.
It has not gotten to use its recently sharpened teeth,
A once a year occasion, done by some great Aunt
Or other. They're trying to get the message out.

The sharpened teeth tear away the flesh
That we have forfeited. What else is no
Longer ours once we pass through
The cold and lonely places of quiet air.

Disturbed by some state of mind or act,
The door men and women assigned to us
Will hurry into action; building or tearing down
Bits of our door so it will be ready exactly as we need it.

One man jumped through his half finished.
His choice was both accidental and full of purpose.
That door man is out of work, building his own door,
Through which he will pass, though no choice of his own.

So, where is this sadness again?
That makes it so terrible a thing
To pass through the door for you?
It's waiting here, you dial it simply.

I was unavailable, so I dance for you today.

Before you start tap dancing about how much money I owe you, or how much glue I poured onto your seat and which is now stuck to your hind thighs, I would like for you to look high up into the skies. Just for a moment. Do you see any stars? Which ones? What impact do they have on your life? If they were to fall all around, which constellation do you reckon we'd be plummeted upon by?

I have space to let. If you need any space, I have some which you may procure. It is scattered all around, but if you were to add it all up, it would be a sizable amount. You could raise a family in it. But of course you and your family could not be in the same physical space together. As I said, it is rather spread out, so you are better off adopting, for how could you change a diaper if you were never within reaching distance of your child? And how would you discipline them if swatting range was unavailable? So it is your decision to make. I rent reasonably, you shall see. I rent quite competitively compared to my peers who let space much more conveniently, but alas, the cost searches the heavens without end. I await your call.

Humbly,

Alfrabottoms Cauldronmouth III

Great Thunderous Blubber, What Have We Wrought?!

"If you are in fact serious, as I suppose you must be given the expression you've let fly across your rude and biting face, I shall have to disagree further! And I choose no other tactic than to exhort you with strange and rare meanings, the likes of which you shall hear of but once!"

Randy was stumped. He stepped back a pace, helpless as the flow of words washed over him, draining him of fair retort. He was struck mute. He stood there, dumbened for a series of moments, and then his mind began to race, while his body remained paralyzed.

"I shall leave you be for now, young man. A continuance is in order, but let us wait a little while."

Our Host gave Randy a pat on his left shoulder. A pat that nearly shook loose his attempts at grasping sanity. Each sinew and muscle tensed and remained so as he turned and walked toward the room's far corner.

Everyone was staring.

Someone offered him a drink. Randy preferred the spot his nose had found in the space where two walls meet. He sniffed and caught a cooler sensation. He was relaxed a bit. Someone tapped his shoulder.

Whirling, Randy felt his nose warm to room temperature. Who had tapped him? Everyone stared, but no one was within arms length. A beautiful woman could not stand the tension any longer, and so she made attempts at distracting her date by giving his scalp all the attention her fingers could give it. A rigorous massage. Other guests did likewise, only in varying manner and technique.

Now he was not being seen by anyone. There was a path through the room created by the couples. Naturally, and through no intention of their own. Randy walked this path and it lead to the high ceiling-ed Piano Room. 8 pianos were scattered about. 3 were presently being accosted by some half studied individuals. Candles, food and drinks stood atop these grand devices. The candles were unlit, however, and Randy quickly found a method for remedying this.

A quick grasp and an upthrust put a candle securely in his possession. Progressing in short, quick hops, Randy found our Host.

"BING!" Randy shouted, took out his lighter, and immediately lit our Host's shirt on fire. Well, it spread quite quickly, seeing as the room was, until now, quite intimately packed.

"And now I have lit my candle!" Randy whispered, as he watched our Host be consumed.

"BUT WAIT!"

Our Host was protesting! The flames ceased in all but his mustache, which seemed to be fueled by some long burning substance.

"I HAVE NOT FINISHED YOUR REPRIMAND."

Randy did not know what to expect. He had never known an exclamation that was capable of extinguishing a healthy fire.

"I have called you a snob and a snoot. I have rubbed your face in the blubber of your own misgivings and I have spent my time issuing the full truth for your benefit. And you have gained nothing by it! What must I do? What methods must I adopt? What ways must I employ to coax some trembling sense from your humanhood?"

"You should have employed music and dance," Randy said, only slightly functioning above fraught nerves. "A bit of ritual may have helped, too. You must realize that I am here to learn from you, and if you cannot be patient, then I can never learn from you. You see I'm afraid of you now. You've gone too far."

"Too far!" Our host's tone was thought to have peaked moments earlier, but here it scans the loftiest heights yet.

"The distance of "too far" has yet to be traveled, young lad. Demonstration is my only asset, come this very moment."

Fingers raised to his mustache, testing at the still blazing heap of air, he began to nudge it. The queerest look appeared on his long, slender, bony face. Both eyebrows dancing independently of each other. The nudging became a poking. And with the poking he alternated with stroking. The mustache began to move. Slightly. And now more. It was heading north, should Our Host's face be a map. His finger nudged, and into his nose the hairs were being sent. There was ample room. His nose was capable of holding fat cigars. A mustache would be quite easier to compact. Now he poke with both fingers until the 'stache was gone, his upper lip raised past his teeth, and the flames issued from great, flaring nostrils.

"I've had it! You're a slug! A miserable puppy that makes no distinction between a hydrant and the asshole of a camel!"

And in that space of time, the entire earth was engulfed by another sort of chaos. It eclipsed the ongoing chaos only because it was triggered by it and had more flares set to burn. It is because of disapproval, because of resistance and because of hilarious dinner parties that the world must now end. One man will survive of the two, and he will be given a period of time to be right about that which he was speaking. His perspective will rule. He may enjoy it as he chooses with the smoldering ruins.

After that initial space of time has run out, he will be given 30 seconds. 30 seconds he will have to dance the Dance of Remembrance. To leave an impression with his soles and his heart. His voice will be given inspired flight and he is to enact pure creation. But then he will stop. Because his time is up. Because the height of creation will have now been put behind him, and it will grow ever further, ever more distant, ever more lovely in memory.

Then he will be given a word to read. To sum up all that was.

He knows it already. IT IS:

UPROARIOUS.

Purposeless

"Because you were careless and refused to examine the world around you, a sacrifice you shall be."

The thing pointed and laughed.

The man heard the sentence read, but he did not comprehend.

The thing understood this.

The man felt it graze his cheek with a single bony finger. And then he recoiled. And so the thing recoiled, lifting itself high above.

"I don't care if you follow me, but I'm leaving," the man said.

"And to do what?" the thing inquired. "Throw your life, your potential this way and that? Seek and wonder and dream and come up short?"

"You, as a thing, have misjudged me. I hold layers you cannot see. And I refuse to be led down some side angle road or be caught up in your confusion. I have my own. And I sit with it. And I will clear it up."

The thing laughed and looked. And smiled and studied. And groped toward the man. It seized the man's toe and quickly upended him. And it tore his belly with its tongue. And it watched as his insides spilled and poured. And when he was empty, the thing laid the man down, gently.

Both the man and the thing then did sigh.

Way, way underground

"You cannot truly know love until you've been cheated on," she said. Those last words came out in a whisper. He held her closer, tighter. And she continued to die.
"You think you've lost something, but you've only continued to live. You've got a few more words etched on your board. A bit more crease to your brow. And you've invited it all."

The next few moments were spent in silence. Each was alone within themselves. Sorrow coursed through his body. All the memories. The loss.

And then the crowd dispersed.

He went home that night and could not think. He could only stare at walls. Measure them visually. He sat in a chair. It was not comfortable. And he rambled to himself. Thoughts born from he knew not where. They only passed through his lips and fell quietly, dryly, to the floor.

And then came,

"I once knew a woman of extraordinary grace. And unsurpassed talent. And she loved me. And then all of this passed away. Dot, dot, hum."

It was the closest thing he could manage resembling a joke.

His mind became clearer. He remembered having tea with her for the first time. Even in his hellos he knew he would always be alone. Terrified, he did not know where to go.

And all life for a time went without mention. So we could forget impressions, circumstances and preconceptions. So that new eyes could be drawn in place of the old. So that new wisdom could be born from an old day's fright.

So that we could chart a new course. So we could CHANGE. Be different from what came before, set waves in motion that would never be slowed, never be pragmatic, never be guessed, never echo what was.

To stop the infuriating cycle of doing.

His mind felt different now. Some new thing has hatched, and he is waiting to see what it is. He sees a wing newly exposed. He stirs his finger in his drinking glass. Water clings to a finger held out. Down falls the drop. It feels the impact. The thing is alive.