Either this town is without character, or my own lack thereof blinds me to what style hums it into history. The brook's rapids are drowned by the highway roar, central song that never passes through, spilling over walls and roofs. A railroad collects rust between weeds, silent authenticity. Impassive clouds remind me of other ways to witness. And this is real, too; sadness accrues over store counters, fatigue glowing in the pavement connecting all, cracked and rubble facing skies a simulacrum grey. Inebriation, par for course, a hidden semblance of a self-chosen haze within a haze. Gravity, acoustic footfalls question my arrival here.
phosphene breath-- dark, dark mining town solstice unearths inner rainbows