who will put flowers on a flowers grave

2003-07-30, 11:59 p.m.

when we all find the end, with its presupposed trauma, there may only be peace. The presupposed may become a reality when we hold onto life like Miles held his trumpet; there cannot be a moment that lives forever, and we only last as long as the sound of a ticking clock. Oh to say this is a note which is sagging with the wieght of remorse, that is a lie. In the understanding of the brevity of a clock's ticking, we cry at the sparkling skirt of night, we love with more than we can afford, we lose it all because none of it was ours to begin with.

loosened muscles make me realize, i am writing to the empty space of anyone's eyes, to people who are just as full with love and anguish as i. so i'll sit down on the faded bench at the end of the pond, rusty colored shine from a weighted october sun. i'll sit on the grass in a august heat wave, living in the distorted air, breathing with the chest of the wind. and they are all bits of a fraction, we love to try and pile the fractions into whole numbers, remainders stick to our eyelids with the ferver of a prize fighter.