The nostalgia for the past is perceived in the pit of the stomach, as well as in the corners of the mind. Entering these corners engenders a rare vertigo. No one knows to what neighborhood these streets belong. Whether the memory is mild or bitter, if the memory is lost, or if a particular corner reminds one of another, similar corner.
My shadow tells me that a silent mountain is without sun.
That in silence, words will spill forth; from memory they will explode
telling the story that is buried beneath.
The story is told in an uncommon way.
It is invented by recalling the presence of a man, lost on a path.
While walking on this path lost, time began to storm.
Rain began to fall, from the ground to up, and the man could not run to shelter.
Lacking his own words to cover him, time dripped onto his body.
It dripped down his back, and onto his hands, and gave him a name.
With time running down his cheeks, his tears fleshed out time.
They fleshed out her figure, and he saw, that she was always there.
Turning down the street, only seconds before, he ever glanced in her direction.
My shadow speaks no more and I find myself in loss, even while I speak.
The everyday ground is cracked and cracking.
Scars bleed, uncovering, their lost source of silence.
A silence that inflicts the wound of a scar
that is written then,
Anonymous likes to call random numbers on (omitted) phone and tell little stories into the ether but don’t bother trying to call back. Anonymous’ phone was disconnected a long time ago.