Twilight refuses to learn words that pull him out of midday reveries. He lifts up found objects as something familiar or unfamiliar but compelling, the broken up, chewed up, wrecked. His head is crow and scarred. Sword like lightning stretching from his chest down to his thighs. Scarecrow legs, outstretched flower petal arms to wrap around the world. His story pulsates the night.
"There's a place beneath this sky. It disguises so many things, forbidden thoughts. It still surprises me, here at the edge of every slippery moment. I wait in vain for my nine year old self to find what he always wanted. He is shaking. He has been dreaming again of dead, teary-eyed prophets wailing at the cliff's edge. His dreams keep him safe. With this time-frozen child next to me I walk and walk and never stop."
Twilight's heart was whipped wild with too much caffeine. When his notebooks were filled he tossed them into the spare bedroom. The notes themselves were chaotic scribblings of whatever came to mind in the moment. Whenever he spotted a door reading: Do Not Enter, he had to slip through it. Calamity or curse might find him. He was never not broken.
"When I close my eyes and say a quick prayer I rejoice in the night and praise the mice in the walls. I stepped out of a dream into a dream. If you put your ear to my chest you'll hear the wings of crows and how piecemeal we die and fade away. Maybe dreaming's all that's left of prayer on this blue orphan earth."
Chasing where the snow ends and the stars begin. Chasing inexplicable sadness. Chasing the horizon of clouds. Chasing a pure faith. Chasing the warmth of pleasure. Chasing the wondrous things of red orange yellow green blue indigo. The want of flesh is dazzling. Chasing the brightness that surrounds the turning season. Chasing the map of an ancient love story. Embracing the glory of hands and the spring-blue light.