Everything feels like a damn omen. Yesterday, I saw twelve crows in a dead maple — croakers inside a skeleton’s ribs. Stupid.
We are all sick. His voice never stops. Who can breathe think unwatch unfeel our immersion in all things him, entropic, this 365 day haunted house open house out of which gurgles forth every sort of american brute, so many renfields asking for more flies.
How is one to live within this day any day each day end times?
The opposite of madness is love.
So track down rouse revivify the ones you love and tell them so by doodle, tattoo, note, hieroglyph, drone delivery, with your voice voyaging the electric waves micro short long burst, in letters ancient handwritten.
Say yes yes you have saved me once always now too, made me almost whole, kept my cuts from most corruptions, steadied the tectonics, shaped this one unshaken place where I might rest before the call arrives to stand No with our voices bodies in the path of his barbarous every shot and splinter unhinged.
Winslow Homer
“The Lifeline”
