why do you keep re-writing the faces of what has already been, layer upon layer of feverish scribble? the past cannot be altered, the stranger said, his amber voice stern.
i stood there broken, the quiet of the dead for my only flame. oh if the sky could know of the loneliness of its blue.
outside, the tree was gently falling into autumn, unaware that it did so, and why.
and how hard i wished for the time of the tree, how hard.