There is something surreal that lurks in the hour just after the sun rises, and also, before it sets. During this time anything seems possible: the sun hasn't yet decided to shine, or to close its eyes, and in these pensive seconds of celestial indecision, time hangs on as fast as it recedes. In these moments time stand at a crossroads, where potential meets imagination, exempted from examination. Distinct and indistinct, the hour's evanescence is hastened by its radiance.
The birth and death of the day; who would have known it would be so hard to tell the difference?
Soon, time passes, transient and vagrant, frightened away by the whirring police-siren oscillation of the sun and moon, shrouded in darkness or evaporated and dissolved by bright lights. All of my assumed fantasies bleed out into cotton-candy clouds, then quickly turn inert and grey as the daily drudgery sets in. The buzzing of industry.
Work and worry.
And loss - of time, of love, of self.
This quotidian tedium breeds a desperate restlessness, a panicked boredom.
I can sense a deterioration, deleterious and dreadful.
All I hear are the deflated sounds of sighing, leaky crestfallen hymns, hissing from flat-tire throats.
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