the sounds of life here reflect a different texture of time.
they make me wonder
why we always have so much to do.
are we avoiding something, flooding fears of emptiness with indulgent distraction?
or with schemes and manifestoes?
we build reality up around us using formulas, words, and mortar
we practice history and read tradition to tell ourselves we understand the shape of things,
but when apparent reality begins to crumble, when our contracts and intentions no longer make sense, when it becomes preposterous to maintain what we thought we knew about our selves, what are we left with?