Unbalanced ledgers seven shelves deep. Filled with unreadable names from unremembered decades. The unwatered rage of zombies, grown large enough to block out the sun. Unheard shelling somewhere a lifetime away. Racing to the end of the week, every week. Which becomes a sprint to the end of life, every week. Locking the door to the flimflam bomb-shelter. Nursing maladaptions with the grease of moonlight. Sequestered in the hum of silence. And the cold comfort of asceticism.

5:01 p.m. - 2022-02-24