this week is melting into the last again, an unspooling reel of denatured days whelmed in a geodic cavity of suspense. entombed air turns stale quickly, curable by neither smoke nor innumerable crystalline mirrors refracting the lightning blinking in my window.
occupation's familiar musk hangs heavy, pierced only occasionally by storm sounds. the flightless beast of languor growls an uneasy thunder rolling adrift in a hollow sky, phantom wingbeats striking my temples as I recoil at the realisation that my tormentor is my pulse.
lucent orbs of twilight gemmed in a shapeshifting head stare at any number of absent realisations guilty talons rake deep into the void, yet even this suicidal contemplation snares in ephemerality. we barely remember to maroon the latest self-undoing consecration.