Interval's profile

A world away and howling wind and snow befit the dreary day when strike so swift the daylights thinned to tear me from your shining ray.

Foam from fissures flies freer when pushed upward by sulphorous steam. Steam cannot be shackled, cannot be seen nor held - it sears worse than red-hot iron brands one marked "dreamer", another "loser", another "winner". Where these brands would burn your label plainly, steam would indiscriminately boil your face off until all that is left is a window to your bare thoughts.

Remember when we fought past that mud in the pitch black set camp, absorbed fire heat into each other's flickering faces slept in parallel and woke to a new, foreign, sunlit world? Remember when we explored the old church graveyard the decaying lichen-painted stones bending toward the hill erosion threatening to bare forgotten bones? Remember wondering if archaeologists, uncovering an eternally sleeping couple could confuse his tibia for hers, her femur for his?

When a dark grey dawn grows to a deep gold morning and the speed-blurred trees begin to inhale their twelve hours of sunshine and a solitary bus traces a ribbon of concrete through a vast, uniform wilderness and the solitary passenger isn't where he's going, nor where he's been, but rather some dark grey region between them; and the whole world feels like it's in some sort of impenetrable stasis as if the bus is caught in an infinite loop neverending wheels neverending road: The passenger fee...

An afternoon parking-lot setting sunshine and springtime air permeate unmoving cars waxed atypical blossomed leaves marionetting Deep in the fathoms of slumber, each of the cars a goliath dreaming of pavement and petrol without a load to encumber