there's a certain feeling that creeps up through the hairline fissures in your brittle bones, on frigid hollow nights at the bewitching hour, when silent stillness descends a muted film of forgotten bittersweet memories over the darkness.
and honey-yellow street lamps cast ghostly shadows on the sidewalks, who hold your hand in solidarity as you trudge through empty space, and the dampened humming of the buzz saw never really fades, playing tricks on the music in your ears spinning haunting discordant loops over sullen sugar-coated melodies.
it's as if you've stepped through a portal of time and space where there is no singular destination but transportation to the eternal place in you where that feeling has lived every time it has arisen in the past, where that feeling will return in all the visits to come.
and the place is familiar so you settle into the bed of nails comfortably, breathe in the sharp sting of ragged pain, and float through the museum of recycled thoughts on angry waves. reluctant transparency plays its hide-and-seek game, and you re-learn the methodology of picking up the particles and packing them into steel cages into cardboard boxes into dusty attics into black hole space ships - sending them into the void.
the mundane madness in the mystic mirage of memorializing mourning.