After downpour moisture dries on window glass producing spontaneous shapes ashen in pigment. I use the shapes as makeshift borders composed to ensnare the imagery of an ever-changing world.
During winter frost designs construct the Fibonacci sequence. The ashen shapes contour (and sometimes) overlap descending spirals.
From there it’s a climb to breathe to words to steam on the glass. From there it’s a swirling fingerprint incising amateur illustrations into the steam that after seconds wanes off the glass like a delusion.
I confer that nothing happened if the evidence was anecdotal. And the cold touch of ashen shapes reminds me of nothing…
softness of night tends to slay this obscurity as censorship favors the imagination producing subjective recollections required to construct a sensible reality a paper tear is a failed poem a moaning feline is a living person buried a slurping of the last droplets of liquid through a straw is a throat cancer survivor breathing through a straw at the tip of happiness I find fractured stars wincing at gods apathy if muteness survives the tongue one can hear jilted prayers sing across deaf heaven beside that touch of traffic noise as sound progresses quicker than faces behind windshield glass from whence laws designed of spontaneous natural selection kill the radio kill the thoughts kill the driver and bleed their want for an intense speed limit for time is useful when it subjects to the masters lust not the slaves peripheral stare of the minute hand flapping like a whip
After downpour moisture assassinates previous ashen shapes that sought sanctuary on the glass.
Drumming of rain drops plummets like fingertips thrumming clinks through a wave pattern on a solid surface.
The impending silence afterwards is as stark as a Swan Song.
And a contemporary existence begins again…