(no subject)
Mountian ranges, morning red bathed ridges stab up at the trembling blue horizon. Gray slides lazily off rooftops, lands on the incandescent ground and dies. A flock of little men touch down on the thin surface of porchlight. Dawn's footsoldiers return to march twilight across our faces. Skylights ignite and explode, scattering shards of April around the room, but no one even lives here. We're too busy crashing our cars every morning in the same house. Paving the same roads, unwilling to walk them. And even when we extend ourselves, it's only to be included in a moment that stands still so often we don't struggle to improve conditions. We struggle for the right to say that "we improved conditions". And so often we form communities only to use them as exclusionary devices. We forget that some lone man is beside himself with grief, somewhere people are calling for teachers and no one is answering. Somewhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose against the door. And somewhere these people are keeping records, writing a book. For now we call it "The Book About the Basic Flaw" or "The Book About the Letter A" or "Any Title that a Book about a Man that No One Cares About Might Have". And as we turn the pages, we call out the sounds of nothing, the sounds of a vanishing alphabet standing here waiting.