the red lights blinking in turn and the late night trucks and darkened windows and light, these small lives and what else can there be and surely this isn’t it don’t I have more to come and the moon – only is the moon – and no stars, only cloud, and even without cloud – no stars but for light pollution, the lights on the horizon and how the sky darkens above you until the moon and everything flat and empty like a scene from a play; when will it start, prelude and setting already and I am here and no where and alone see I, these meaningless transcriptions, not even that, but flat and empty, grey as the light that comes up the window.
Feb 22, 2024
Feb 22, 2024 at 7:17 AM UTC
the red lights blinking in turn and the late night trucks and darkened windows and light, these small lives and what else can there be and surely this isn’t it don’t I have more to come and the moon – only is the moon – and no stars, only cloud, and even without cloud – no stars but for light pollution, the lights on the horizon and how the sky darkens above you until the moon and everything flat and empty like a scene from a play; when will it start, prelude and setting already and I am here and no where and alone see I, these meaningless transcriptions, not even that, but flat and empty, grey as the light that comes up the window.