Come together, I beg. Press-gang if you need to. Key-in one, type the next, hit backspace thrice. Now I owe the white void even more. No, this can't be. Only thirty-five revolutions to deadline. The price is costly. More than money, more than pride. Or maybe it IS pride. Nothing can be more costly than that. Flow, thoughts, flow. Stream fast 'round the course inside my mind. Go straight to the edge where, like lemurs slipping on ice, you fall freely but nevertheless give life. Or give away life. Twenty-seven revolutions. How time flies. Like the weekend that just started, then suddenly it's Monday again. Nothing can make you feel more cheated. Wait. A vein is opened. Little tides of air-filled blood surge slowly down the capillary and squirts at the white space. Liberty for the blood. A breathing space for my conscience. Almost done. Spare me some sense this time; sagacity can wait. This is still 'art,' at least I did not cheat. Like the weekend did. #
photo credit: nursemyra
No comments:
Post a Comment