These are the times when the unreality sets in, and he would notice how incorrigibly separated he is from the comings and goings around, rising like helium above breath.
These are the days that stretch long and rides home are odysseys through the “sterile promontory” of other lives. These are the times when even the trains are melancholic.
Adulting is fucking hard. He would think to himself, as he surrenders to a kind of metaphorical dilapidation, his nest wasting away in apathy. At least the symbolism is poetic, even as the stench and grimes set in.
This is death descending.
Not that you could see, when ash-coated palms reach into his eyes and smeared the colours into a solid muddled grey.
Not that you could hear, when his voice was fretted with silence.
Not that he had the words to say it, except through songs that tugged at tear-strings.
A flutter of talons and wings.
#00117F 