12.08.2003 - 01:35
now.
these are ours, sleepless nights trailing brittle days hissing as the life runs out, these are our moments, collected because that's the only way we can make sense of them, compiled by the skilled and argued by the unsure, the passives retreating into question marks and semicolons while all the periods just keep on coming. we're given all we'll ever know to forget, and the one neuron it takes to recall the smell of your hair or the curve of your eyes or the scratch of your skin holds more sun-crushing power than the worst of men can imagine and the best of men can fear. i think it was you that told me we were giving it all away, the night-day machine and the sparks we give to keep it running, you always fucking knew, didn't you, and were only waiting for someone to happen upon the idea.
please, if you can, tell me someday if anyone ever did.
then - soon25.09.2003-Epilogue.
01.09.2003-
30.08.2003-Exeunt, the Moor.
28.08.2003-why?
27.08.2003-Last night, and august in general.