words are running slow. the mind is like a web of dreams that has grown slack. nothing catches. nothing accumulates into anything meaningful. i sit with fingers on the keys, waiting. the light from the unwatched television flashes with each scene change, shifting the shadows, making this dead scene seem alive. alive.

...

there are moments burned into the heart like a strobe light flash on a retina, or the form of a child in a hiroshima blast. they are meaningless. trapped, frozen in time, isolated from either progression into the present, or a tracing back towards a beginning. isthmuses, plateaus, rising out of the mists...