Ten oclock. Some bell, somewhere, rings out the hour in doleful tones. The room houses me quietly, the eggshell protecting my life and belongings from a world I suspect of being tacitly hostile. Restless abeyance cups me like fingers, like the fingers of a child would curl delicate and shaking about the wings of an injured butterfly. This is the feeling I have, incomplete without my flight, a pretty thing but only temporal: slated to dissolve into the wilting, late-summer grass.
This is the reflected world, a thin and chemical taste in the mouth of God. Sometimes I find it hard to believe that the span of time is real; of days or ages, weeks on weeks compounding the snow into glaciers that hue steep furrows into the mountains. Silent or roaring, bending pale-blue limbs around the jutting stone as the struggle to complete their millennia waltz to the sea. I was somehow trapped beneath this glass, again evoking in myself the ghost of a dry insect pinned into position.
I was not told that this was a part of the inevitable descent.
(cross posted to corbie)