Sometimes I write out the title and forgot what there was even to say about it.
Words are failing me lately, or I’m failing them. There’s a failure at hand.
What’s the objective? None.
All I know is that I am falling. The descent feels crisp.
Foresight. Foresight. Foresight. That’s everything, isn’t it?
Ah… I want to go back to the one who wrote “bravado” as the title. Otherwise sentences randomly appear and turn into this tangle.
Lots of small things adding up to a far larger plan than whatever I manage to grasp.
Do you think explaining the fog makes it go away? If I wrote it all out on here would it eventually disperse? It may just thicken more until it in your pores, condensing into venom.
You know, I think it’s like this: to even begin talking away the fog is to invite. And because the sound reverbs off fog-producing devices which pump out more. What’s the surprise? You’re the one who walked into this amusement attraction.
I’m just pressing the fast-forward button now.
Hope you enjoy your place at the big table! Oak and from the 1800s.
Do you enjoy the bulletin board covered in red strings? Who’s that, whose board?
Sometimes one feels an urge to write absolutely anything else. Something unknown; venturing into parts no one dares.
Brass knuckles, however cold, at least registers. The only thing to cling onto as the fog caves the zipped up tent. Where’s the hazmat suit?
Inhale enough of it and you feel funny.
Whatever asphault connecting our little home here seems to be cracking. There’s nothing underneath though. Since the neighborhood is suspended in air. Crumbled dirt falling as we float higher. Hopefully you got a strong arm around the leash. Same as ours I suppose.
Reaching your hand out to see the vapor flow between each finger.
Maybe the fog condenses into angel wings. Maybe it’ll evict the body.
Losing the will to explain, but gaining a will to do anything else I suppose.
Is it a false bravado?