Will these impressions endure? Rain blinking silver beads against the asphalt purlieu spreading beneath the balcony, lit by the swaying beams of trucklight parasitic in purchase of a night every Being's repose. Bodies skeltering up unshapely grass mounds to doors lacquered recently, gaudily masking the impertinent, rotting, stormlashed pinewood, a patina over death as deathly coating the souls passing through those thresholds.
Some pause, pretending to remember and looking at nothing within or without before headfirst and down they trundle into the confines of these drably grey wainscoted rooms fit best for the plump bedbugs and grubs leeching the moisture and thin, unstaunched blood inside. Will the spindly tree in the northeast corner, hunkered limp under the cloying expanse of nightsky freeze as frieze in the minds of us lumbering, life-weighted people circling the warrens of timber erected here, neighbours neither wood nor man to any?
Will it stay with me later how a minute ago this body rose vertically, a wraith, from its supine chair by a reflex reconvening after its own mysterious response to the chopping wind that gutters electric light as if appropriating for nature what man thought his? Will I remember my blind kinship with the silent quake of this night's urge?
No hunger after filaments of matter, yet how I now starve. Famished. Gnostic.
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