We’re almost there, dear.

As an equatorial, set against white washed walls and beneath cascading fluorescent glow; I would watch with equanimity as the hands of the clock metamorph into meaningless appointment and thoughts converge into a white static frenzy, inconsequential and wholely therapeutic.

It passes in blinding streaks of excruciation, strangely evocative of streetlamp lambency on sideview mirrors from the passenger seat. And between moments of fugitive consciousness and torpid lassitude, i think to myself, in almost absurd retrospection…

These comforting sounds resound through the cracks of the sky that we have so intricately woven with fingers pointed straight up, whilst lying as an equatorial; planning, charting, daydreaming… in selfish languor.

~ by cryhavok on November 1, 2008.