laboring over goodbyes always felt trite, so forgive the brevity of this partial ending, partial forgetting. please queue at creating patterns. this is the end, my friends. comments are appreciated.

until further notice.

writing is a way to bring the words heavily onto the page slightly nervous from their birth.

the way one goes nowhere important. your voice is so vibrant, like a child’s, taking words for the playthings they are. from nowhere but the sky you see daily, the beginnings come circling like birds.

i buried my heart in a patch of dirt, in the middle of a sun-scorched field, left it there, never to return.

you don’t know how to make up for it.

time is the water that flows from you, meaningless, washing away the memory of another day. you are alive miraculously, with less things than needed, the hands you dirtied in living your own.

when evening comes, we take our glasses, break them, sweep up the shards to break them again tomorrow.

darting in the sun like needles of rain.

if you are lucky, it is nowhere to be found. just somewhere infinite with all the bellies thrown together. one bone-cracking noise breaks clearly through and no one there to listen.