The corruption. The collapse. A glance told but completely unspoken. Lo! how the sun unspools above us; is only a concept in these darkened days at year’s end. Quietly the hours do tick away. Less Language, these days more — more space, the digits in float and ever-convalescent. We ask they never stop.
Blue in the clouds. A December, the month lost to the sky. Will it collapse? Will it rise? Freedom or shelter. The night world upending herself at each dawn. Cataclysms and buoyancy. The sky passing over this valley — the clouds as marching armies of the starched, indomitable. Is the mind resolute and open? The mountains are white, both uncoupled from our small realities. Witness these.
Witness them like we witness ink on a page. Pixels in collaboration and request. A motel room along a sloshing interstate outside of Boise, ID produces nothing as her dominant ascetic. Instead, I must hunt the bedside dresser for cheap television flyers despondent with promotional faces. Copies of a copy of copy. I snatch at them with the lens. Witness these three results of peoples who ostensibly are:
