The catch, the rub indeed.
Not apathy, I mean, but not nothing, either, not Nothing at all.
Cigarettes and caffeine.
(Nonsense motions).
Tired, so tired. Can't count anymore, can't remember, except that once it was easy.
Too far away, too foot-to-the-gas-to-the-sound-of-the-road.
All of a sudden, 90, 95, and you've graduated to a speeding ticket.
And to someone old inside.
Beware the wall.
Wish.
Me - Sure it will. So... tell me. (I reach into my pocket for a cigarette, only to discover that they're soaked.) Damn it.
Her - (A smile) No. And you shouldn't smoke, anyway. It makes you smell funny. It's killing me.
Me - The suspense is killing me.
Wreckage.
and so your mouth would water,
and your hands would wander,
and you'd kick your feet and shiver.
I'd find you curled up in a ball all around me,
jumping in your sleep,
or awake,
watching me dream.
It surges in the head with pulse, so like smashing clenched fist into unpainted and unyielding concrete walls; nearly as bloody. Tunnel vision, les depassement du temps, and then nothing: No one left to listen to the rending sound of metal and fragments of glass scattering across the asphalt.
There it is, There.
Somewhere riding the circle of sight, just outside of the fading red lines.
There it is again!
It surges, moves for life, menacing and hungry, no substance to speak of but somehow a worthwhile venture, somehow worthy of talking it to sleep. Put it to sleep so that it stays in place, gets away from the rivers of antifreeze and gasoline, stands clear of transmission fluid and motor oil. Not to mention the crimson mark, stretching across a hundred yards of highway.
Go talk to the graves, it's summer and the nights are shorter, so the sunlight can banish the voices in time to bring an end. It's winter, and the nights are long, and they'll come searching, now. They'll cradle ears and whisper as they close their teeth around the neck and turn the wheel downwards. Go talk to the graves, their truth is not far from the prime, and there they will wait like spiders...
Casting nets around the candle flames.
[End of Supplemental Materials Section]
Section 4: Beware the Night
Stranger, Beware The Night
Stranger, Beware the night:
It stalks the curves of her hips
Persistent, unending.
A lover. A killer.
Her shapes rise and fall;
Circadia balances her love
With her hatred.
Her heart is a knife,
Her soul is ice.
Beware the night:
Where careless kisses drift
Down, Down, deeper.
Petals of ash, the blossoms
Of a caress you give with
Fleeting regard for safety.
She will consume you and
You will surrender to her,
Hopelessly.
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