Hurricanes and foghorns mixing up a ranch on the outskirts of Nowhere
The candlemaker doesn't seem to mind
Reading and rereading collapsing tomes
Cluttered desks, but all is calm inside.
Twisted in corruption, knobbly fingers shaking
Here's a man we'd call wizened.
He's seen all sides of the foreground.

There's a path around his house where nothing grows
His soles made it
Silent and statuesque he trod
Quiet and calm in his solitude
He fears nothing but unrest.

Cryptic script mars the mahogany dresser
A source of comfort, pride
Mystery of bygone days of the infinite October
When the sleepy sun would kiss the earth goodnight
When the dust would catch the light
A gift to the eyes as they lay themselves to rest.

I have measures of conflict between doubt and confidence.
I am a ******* alcoholic, supposed to set myself aside from myself.
Then I read a piece of prosaic fiction and I forget everything.
I forget who I am.
I feel this surge of undeniable purpose, I cease to exist outside of this
        world I hid under.
It reminds me of the words I carry in my head
reminiscent of what I meant to convey in abstract terms of the Candlemaker
A plane where a piece of me resides, where no one can see or visit
unless I take up the pen and scribble a few words down on a single sheet of paper
effectively, casually creating another sphere to add to the countless that already reside in the
        infinite.
Maybe someone else could find a piece of themselves
in a few words.
All of this time wasted elsewhere
when all I have to do is draw these lines in shapes called letters
and everywhere is at my feet.