Mountain ranges, mourning red bay at the bridges. Step up at the coming blue horizon. Grey slides loosely off rooftops. Land on the Incan desert ground dies. A flock of little men touch down on the surface of the porchlight.

Bronze fist soldiers return to watch the twilight across the faces. Skylights ignite and explode, scattering shards of April around the room.

No one even lives here. We're too busy crashing our cars every morning at 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 world that's standing still. And so often we don't struggle to improve conditions. We struggle for the right to say "we improve onditions".

And so often we form communities, only to use them as exclusionary devices, and we forget that somewhere, man is beside himself with grief. And somewhere, people are calling for teachers, but no one's answering.

Somewhere, a man stands, walks across the room and breaks his nose against the door.

And somewhere, these people are keeping records and writing a book.

For now we can call it 'The Book About the Basic Flaw' or 'The Book About the Letter "N" ' 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.

Sometimes words give up and, silently walk off, the edge of the page.

suri thought at 11:33 PM