Mental ashes now fill the cracks. An indigo wind is asleep in the clouds. You’re a guest at a masquerade holding nothing but a handful of eternity.
With a last burst of individualism a few more steps are taken. A few more steps toward the ghetto of diminishing feelings.
You don’t want much, but whatever it is, you don’t want to find it in somebody else’s stuff. But the only things playing now are; irrational reflections, lifeless fantasies and collapsing imaginings.
You don’t want much; oxygen, reason, value, clarity, a known.
A sunrise . . .
of a force of central will.