This is a kind of aloneness, the kind that tastes like pulled teeth and steam coming off dragon scales and humid cat fur in the dark. My rosehips float in vinegar, alone.
Months fold over me; I fold under them. These are the same months with different angles. I wet the corners of days with my tongue.
Maybe this is why it wants to keep us here; it slows us down and spreads us out, trying to find a filler.
Elliot Blake Hueske
This is my station; a bastion to a future generation which I have no interest contributing to, one which my father and grandfather have so long envisioned, worked to preserve and uphold in the way they raised their children. It’s exhausting to me, all this ritualism.