hurting for a framework of words
with which to house
this blank sacrament of feeling
the feeling of suture
of being threaded
together
along lines, irradiate
between white and black
a spectrum as hollow as whole.
the thing is that the white and black are not the same but they exist simultaneously in the same place. thus i am strung by what may loosely be termed a paradox. and the whole world seems to thrum along these strings which collect within themselves moment after moment, while i hang back in fear and in love, mourning what time has discarded, uselessly human. this is not a metaphor, it is a description, and hence a bulletin from the abyss. but i will drag myself out. and then time will pay for all it has broken.