Cloud, Revisited

Through the cold fog, watch me while I am still here. My fingers are poised; I have not yet grown so tired, not yet surrendered entirely. I meet each day with lethargy; the slow, blue music that crawls under my skin. Doors, pushed by the wind, swing shut, a startle. Or was that a different song?

Let me put it plainly: life is wreckage. Books, discs, clothes, scatter over the industrial carpet. They make their own sculptures. I claw my way through the narratives, scraping the skin off each story, hiding the evidence under my nails.

(Please) don’t ask questions. No politics, music, art, literature, history. Sound is constant, ever present. Hold it in your hand and I will pay attention.