Like morning, or like the danger of empty rooms, the days flow like an angry river, thrashing the shore where fallen trees and mossy debris lie in drunken piles, waiting only to be soothed by the water’s desperate hiccups.
Strips of foam leap in scattered places where the invisible wind twists its lips into a crude kiss, blowing and blowing, again and again, and the water is never exhausted but always puckers its many lips in kind, expelling white froth into the morning.
It happens all the way down the miles of river, as long as the wind won’t let up and the trees won’t stop stuttering, begging for mercy maybe, or singing in morbid praise of the wind’s tireless flogging.
But that’s far, out where the hours are raw, and tomorrow is long gone, and the only reason to keep breathing is because each moment is a war between silence and death.
Here, where it’s just lamplight and dirty coffee, the night time is reminiscent of ancient stars, and down below, here and there, the creatures of the night pray for morning, and the deep snores of angry children are music, and loneliness is the only melody the stars think to share.
The mountains are guardians, not walls. They carry houses and roads and lights in the night that draw a mural on the horizon, and give you more world in a minute than one heart can take. You stay away from windows, full as they are of both promise and confinement, and remain in the only place the escape is not larger than you.