Rising, the volcano ashes, the sea levels, the fog in a dreaded morning walk. I can smell each of the season’s stereotypes. The public’s chatter in the stores, the back and forth of the clerks, the tapping of the cards in the POS.
Memory is a spy dressed in black, walking a la pointe becoming undistinguishable from the background. It asks: we have seen this before, can we derive meaning from naivete? From far sightedness?
I admit I negotiate with it every night.
Today the dogs are back, and I have sprayed myself in the bed of roses that will adorn my fading self as time stops for no one. As the street lights don’t care whether you are mugged, or you are holding hands for the first time.

I feel cruelty toward the self, anger and frustration toward the human. I am wishing to depart already. I am just waiting. For a defining, triggering moment where I put the final period.
I intuit that my heart will give in rather quickly as it knows it does not belong here at all.
I would just ask the gentleman to take me. Simply take me. One last little pain, one last terrifying primeval moment before the rapture. A cut in the umbilical cord. The womb I was never supposed to inhabit. No need for bleakness or climax. A simple erasing moment, allow the artist to correct the draft and re-do the sketches. If it gets it right, then I am not to “be” at all.