I'm in a room without recovery area: a room of intermission, a room of collapse. Where are the convenient little windows to release a wicked bird of thought? The quiet there is monk-like, rogue, and slightly unpleasant, guilty of moments spent with shadow.
I want to build a clock that ticks once a year βmore dark than shark,
my confessional capacity βtime-stretched, like the heavy intoxicated ******* of the witching hour. And I'll make soup from the leftover prayers of the day before, all in hopes the rooms of me, then so clear, will one day be faraway suns in the temple of heaven.