of clarity has slowly materialized and now sheds a frost of weeping moonlight onto the ground below. The stars and sky above go about their business of slow-motion catastrophe. This is, as much is, taken as a fleeting and whimsical token of affection from the pulse of existence, however one would want to refer to it. The dirt is whispering cancerously optimistic gossip about the weight and direction of my steps as I again slowly realize that:
Yes, there is a light at the end of the tunnel and it is of the same heat and color as that from which we were all initially kicked out onto the road.
No, I was wrong to state that my course is not seeking to again become the in and of the light.
(I collect all the bad things I said and felt due to my anger and wonder where you all are.)
Yes, we are just making laps, and yes, you can and will fall dead on the track if careless.
You won't come back as a dolphin.
And no,
I'm not sorry.
The light is drying my eyes and I put it back into your mouth.
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