2/25/2003

2/25/2003 - 12:00

Two (Counting slower, but still backwards)

White fission blasts burn off of ice stained drifts and race in straight line bursts through crackle dry looking glass skies.

My head gets caught in the path of a single blade.

Squint.

Migraine.

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Later on:

Someone made a weak pot of coffee. I poured a cup and dumped it out. Then I emptied the rest of the pot into the drain. Made a fresh one, five scoops, ahhh. Feeling better, but still counting.

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Shadows of Amusement:

Old man round and round ride dry rotting in the hot last summer sun. Behind and around there are kids waiting for the park to open, but none will run to this old decaying machine. It's soul doesn't weep, simply rests the chin of early amusement on its breathing (barely moving) chest and doesn't look up. It has found that having no hope is less painful than feeling it slip away.