solitude makes sense to me. it clenches in a muscular silence, in the sweetness of a desolate place. submission laxes after midnight. the heart demands a quiet gathering by daylight. the tailwinds cause vascular leaves to rustle. the word ‘immediately’ recurs forty times in a book. a breaking day breaks the throat into nothing. dialogue is as organic as it is wordless. lauds or vespers simmer in the margins. debt is a simple translation of guilt. a tempo is counted in the colour blue. rain sloshes in a makeshift marsh. cold, glistening light fades around a tree. the tree stands like a purified soul. fingers bequeath a christening of snow. a theology of cats is an analogue for selfishness. the spirit of prospectus hovers over deep waters. the horizon stretches far beyond an ailing jetty. a flailing husk rattles through the mist. impatience batters the stirrings of a kindness. hope silences a more brutal loving. sorrow kisses the edifice of joy. a waning bell tolls for the alone who remain alone.

 

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