Ciarra

The house across the street is vacant now. (It's viiisible... Gone. Viiisible... Gone as I watch its image fluttering over the roof of my own house, jumping on the oversize trampoline in my back yard. I would expect that it's forlorn enough to be gathered up and scattered by the wind [after all that it had and lost] but it just sits there [all steady-like]. It is an atrocious house [to remain unmoved]. Living in that house, one can come to believe of the leaves to cackle as they fall (the nutcases). I too have surpassed my salvation (the sucker), like pencil marks invisible on skin [felt alone/only felt]. [Like Jesus even, huh? or so poised as this moment...] I've lost my unknowing companion, so that I might remember that it's cold.

[The in between is what I want. I want the darkness.] [Writing the words or the depths? Wondering about truth?]

I was in the car a few days ago and I saw an old man walking, as slow as you like with his hands behind his back, pondering. It hit me then, the beautiful intricacy of this life of ours. The excruciatingly frailty of this web that at times is the last strength in the universe. The only truth: that life will go on. Whether it tears or shatters or snaps. My life seems so complicated but that man, his life is complicated as well. It had consumed him. He needed a change of scenery just to comprehend the one he left behind/came from. It was surreal. Perfect. That's it. Gorgeous, the sheer perfection of all these fumbling attempts as though towards something we already possess. (Like the bus ride snippets...convey the magic of the everyday, if you can.)

MysteryGuy?

Counterfeit exhaustion got him there, but the coming fall is all his own. His pulse is strong and slow, which seems odd to his senses. Under his breath his own voice is muttering to him but he can't make it out. Instead, he gulps the coffee sitting on the church pew beside him, wishing he could be of service to someone.