The ghost of syntax sways down the corridor of lies; the heraldry branded into the body reverberates. The sublimity of violence! I walk toward the drooling beast at the end of the corridor — its sticky saliva creeps up over the bridge of my nose, and I refuse to dissolve in it.
Meteors circle around me, and until wreckage rushes into my arms I still feel it has nothing to do with me. Blue terminal nova! Can you slip into those wailing clouds and let the rain fall? Umbrellas drifting through the city, you have toppled in the flower-like expanse of time and space. Water and ripples soothe the canopy; the canopy breathes along the border between the real and the false; the ribs are stepped on by passersby on the soaked pavement. The sanctity of the galaxy! Let the red words be dyed into ultramarine! The fireworks rising from the sea in the distance — are they a mirage reflecting this defiled world, or the blood kin of her blue pupils?
My exhaustion belongs to the drooping spring. What is enough, and am I a child of the stars?
Your abandonment belongs to the rot in your marrow.
Take down the name of the starry sky, and let your symptoms swell.