failuresnirvana

At some point you realize there is no whole of anything anymore, even the silence is something you're played into as revolving doors resound in stillness  --  empty parking lots with the residuals of the sound of tires in dragged leaves, and wrapper. The corner will always own the streamline of a crowd into a bus, their absence bearing them stronger than their presence like a star revealed in its dead light  --   the moon, a fragment more whole that way, more complete in its composite with a sliver of itself in the pollution of our clouds; all these yesterdays, and future days wavering beside you contrapuntal the silence having never re

As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one. You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.