the wind by itself won’t shuffle any new words into that open mouth unless you swallow this jeweled spider rescued from the attic of justly isolated children
In the morning you can reach out and see on the breeze in the mind the damp stone tightening straps keep him in place the pain in his cell the confession conversion meaningless at this point or the life by the sea rough stone grey the children I pushed through and lined up in the earth and the cliffs so beautiful lonely one time one town on the frontier barely built I can still smell new cut wood that simple home sun creeping through seams in the wall another sunny place warm weather sweet breeze always fetching writing down his many thoughts the wine was good
sometimes the skies are so bright you just can’t wait to do the stupid thing that makes you smile despite the rotting animals and bright plastic toys crushed by parade after parade of oversized novelty SUVs crammed with the skulls of children
My device displays the estimated time it will take to finish this chapter 29 minutes to 32 to 43 minutes a minute later. I see the children of my children’s children and the joy on their faces as they finish the prologue.
Saturn at dawn on the wind could be my voice as a child
always one day behind these days of unseasonable warmth and abstract protest pushing children off a cliff that hadn’t been conceived of yet
the short time in which children have ceased to be burnt trees