A desperate cold sadness clinging to her nostril. Her body a mesh of weak shivers. The winter hugging her loosely. She should go home she thought.

In most nights, silence is an armour. The night will glorify you as it does most men in their endeavours before the morning has its way with us. And most men at night are magicians or arcane bandits dressed in less fear. 1668. plucking moments deftly from the breast of a midnight angel and the sweetness of summer loosely flirting within memories like a tree atop a mound of indecision. If this aint some biblical shit. And then others say that midnight is a coward, a thief weighing not so much as a random thought might one day when they discover how to weigh such things. They are currently splicing, currently devising the future in some lab, somewhere off some remote location some teenager will go loose his/her mind trying to tell his/her parents about. They are not us. They are potentially, but [aren't we all potentially?] No, we are not them. .Night says she'll kill us all just by sticking around, how you swallow night now you're thirsty, in your lungs, in your complacency. Is your heartbeat swollen really, lately I seen the night not so far away screaming screaming at us. come and get me. come and get me. and most nights we just watch. most nights we just complain its too dark, when really, really our shadows coursing through the sky sound like twelve winds in champagne gleaming above our houses. & If you escape with night, three days all it takes and your thirst for some higher form of darkness will sink your team, you and the angel beneath your breath, weighing your moments, weighing the fabric. feeling used, occupied, there aint 80% of myself I could throw away. Not this month. Not this may. November. Something silent when you watch it. If you hold still, remembering and resisting the pull from an idea the planets threw down to you in less time actually. In a month less circumcised with blonde hair and repeating the names of stars, groups of em'. Couldn't believe it. Biblical shit. Just by saying the name he was pulling the star from his aura. And how he said it he was positioning it. Repeating the star, teasing it, like a primitive god in a song. Like the weight of the night was a hammer shattering time from a star. Like the star shone and he missed when he hit it so he said it again and it grew angry. Angrier. And months, how you treat em' already dead, in your palm. When you buy a new watch and the dead laugh, when you check the time, how they call your name, what they said to you the first time, when you checked the time and it was fluid by accident. The ghost of a month stuck to your core once given a reflection in which you hollow seasons yeah aimed at you, a catastrophe of Grammatik proportion. And how they follow undressed within wounds memorable nights proportionate to distinct hallucinogen. And big words and such. The next two days weren’t as sharp from here. Just looking. Searching. You know, tanks. Strange eyes on the page, staining her corpses. Undressing them, entering them used, this month. I had no idea the time undressed the way it had. To explain, the oblique, pure sense of the wall. It had no shape, no identity, it was an obstruction to mirror defeat. No meandering the city threw at it would complete the sight us, lucky enough to die this may. Lucky enough to instigate a heart that would speak in time.

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