Three words punctuated by the tips of snapped quills. Ruined feathers lingering in the margins. An accusation masquerading as a confession pretending to be meaningful. Nonchalant clarification sought in a familiar black hole. There is only the silence of sameness. Nothing left to do but cast a handful of acceptance into a broken pond. The frog has already disappeared. The scorpion does not linger on the shore. The waters quickly return to glass and lilypad memories. A broken clockwork feather shines dully, as a damp reminder.

10:13 p.m. - 2019-04-24