I am immersed in navel-high minutiae. A machine of mundane efficiency. Grasp, slide, twist, set. Repeat.
Borne of embers, a marigold presence descends on my thoughts. A heartbeat of wings echoes with the boxiness of tin inside my head. It drives inward and down, slowly but suddenly, like a train approaching in the distance.
An electric arc slices with agonizing slowness through my veins. The syrupy current surges across my spine and slides under my lungs. It ends with the aching venom of a scorpion sting in my aorta.
The golden thread of sentimental diamond dust is stitched directly into my ventricles, and I weep internal tears of crystal joy.
My face, of course, is a stony mask of nothing.
Like The Neverending Story: The Nothing.
Even though the precious sutures are needled painstakingly into my atrium, the hole can't be sewn closed. Only hemmed less ragged by the gentle grasp of other worries.
10:47 p.m. - 2014-05-12
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