One At Lora Mill

When the night fell it was more because the blue wavering inside started to spiral.

The mechanical wind was attacking and retreating for hours. Something clicked and then I knew it was just a fan oscillating afterall. That's when I felt the coolness on my bare legs and how nice it all seemed.

Storied moon-birds and sweet alpine songs could rapture in the short-lived roundelays here under the skull.

And that is how the room was, the world was, the hopelessness was for me.

My tired brain needs additives. The last abyss changed me somehow. In a small and tired way.

I will thrive under this crystal ceiling.

It is only my willingness to abort the mission which I celebrate,

as the earth spins and I hold on, slipping in my logic, Oh Mercy, I feel spun out.



In this life it's my gold for quartz, this cranium-zeal for a galeful & vast solitude; impenetrable by comfort.

Joy can not quite erase the marks on me.

Because somewhere under all that clean, white paper is the original & terrifying mistake and we

just can't live and die on teacakes and custards alone, you know.