nextSlow Drain of TimeIt's the third time she has found him wedged between the wall and bed, though in the daily lack of clarity she'd found him only once. You nod about last Monday, which has slipped back two weeks now, nod at how clammy his skin felt to her, and you know he'll not be able to walk, and will be heavy when she tries to pick him up again. The recitation is good, however, as he gets well each time, and you wonder how many times this wheel will turn until the days let go and the new one, this day, is like the wind you feel while you look at nothing at all. Fear via PlaceSouth by southeast, I suppose, where thickets grow and tangles weave green until it's black. Places blind with growth blinding me, where I walk right through a face in the day's brightest hour, where I miss by a mile the hand that grabs a tree. And if there could be shadow, that hand would cover mine before it let go. But south by southwest would do, where thin leaves grow, or even in the lava caves where the mineral drip adds little to itself and you would not know the person next to you unless you talked real close, recognized the breath and knew the sun was burning everything outside next |