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Misted windscreen. Foul, grey half-light, tinting with underlying blackness the stippled pastel of Springtime. Negating hue and intensity. Inside, kiln-hot blood pumps... intake-combustion-exhaust. Animated. Resisting inertia. Electrical impulses from eye-to-brain-to-arm-to-fingers mimick battery-to-relay-to-heat-and-motion. Slating prophylactic rain. Unconnected. Wind silenced by the unforgiving slash of tread and water, like the constant rip of canvas. Materializing from mist, insinuating blink like seething red eyes... from tears, not rage. Ponderous, benign, unrelenting, final... shrouded procession for the fallen. Mystery train. Fate's claim, paid for in spirit. Unbidden, I follow. Heading in the same direction. Relentlessly. So, I wasn't getting to work on time, regardless. Three entries in close succession... and I said there were no words. Another sack o' shit from the Pr0zac-bound. |
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