This is the morning of the dying sleep. Once in tune with keys, no more. Trust is difficult when one...pauses. For the false start. Don't over think it. I repeat myself, and nothing new emerges. I weep because there is only weeping. I laugh because there is only weeping. Such hunger touches the inside of cheek, close to gum, and fall.
The day began as most with a rushing toward and away. Each minute of earliness lost in fog. There is no snow here. There is snow, but mostly ice.
In a darkened office, we spoke of narrative and image. Not narrative, but image and speech. I walked the campus and sat. One followed the next. As most days. I am exercising the fingers, which are stiff. Stale. The breath cannot be followed.
When the room fills with people and the story unfolds, not so much unfolding as a laying against ear and heart. Balanced vertebrates, sensitive and not.
This is the morning of the dying sleep. I repeat myself, and nothing new emerges. Once blue, this touch as gentle as carved pavement undertow.