Something I’ve always hated: the imminence. How I happen to know it will come, it will get to the point of striking. The only aspect you can’t tell is the point where it will hit. Apart from that, it all seems set. I can’t even finish up my line that it breaks. And shakes. At first looking like thunderstorms chasing chaotic headless horses. It then turns into waves that carry empty, ruined ships. I’m too tired to tell, to figure it out, to wait for the seizure I am about to feel soon enough. It feels like slumber and maybe this is not even real. I wish I wouldn’t have to tell or to separate the skin from bone, to adjust, to become metamorphic, to put into sequels or colour the shapes. I wish I wouldn’t have to write it down. Not sentence it to this cursed blank paper. I wish I could melt it down and make ir go away the way it came. Reverse the Genesis and spill it over dark forests so that it will never find its way out. But I’m here. And here is the clock. And I just hate this.
