September, Moon Waxing Gibbous 95 Percent
Now, in hollow strokes, the beard creeps semi-grayly across the face.
The face that summoned golden calculations from a body-- reedy pleasure convulsions.
That body, that is now somehow scorched, in its eternalness, per final contractual requests and scattered across the Praca where that body's eyes first combusted into the graybeard's oracles/ and hands found themselves pushing, gently accompanied with anxious laughs, at the other's temporal abode.
Be present his current brain elegiacally intones.
Conventional conversation soon swells and swamps, it sounds like seven trumpets rescuing as the man indulges his human impulses.
A tiger, heart at a hum, stalking companionship, although nature also is desirous of said lightening as its prey.
"What are you doing for lunch?" non-distinct woman says to the more gray by the moment graybeard.
"Tuna, tuna salad for me today; perhaps left overs from tonight's dinner tomorrow. Today is what Tuesday? I can't say what Thursday will call forth for lunch and Friday is usually a wild mess, where I tend to buy my lunch at one of the convincingly convenient quick sale, not really restaurants around here. Anyway, now that that is out of the way, do you have time to breathe breath into me as I speak to you about my broken bits?"
"Tuna, who eats tuna?" non-distinct woman non-distinctly murmur-laughs in the way marionettes do when lilted to life for their applause scene.
Alone, in chorus-less company, tuna goes down laced between slices of bread with nuts and seeds embedded in it. It always never fails to remind the graying beard man of birdseed.
He wonders between mechanical bites how the different bird species process loss and for how long. He wonders if soaring would alleviate the trauma humans seem to spin into delicate, nearly invisible, restraints from the maker's sultry silk.
He unspools time and haunts the moment that he, engorged mentally, entered her sacredness.
It scares him, the vision and how it mirrors the potency of a lilac's wafting olfactory nerve baiting smell-din as its scent tingles freely in mid-April air of any northern midwestern town in America, where owners of land plant them to believe summer will come through the lilac's brief death blooms.
12:59 post meridiem, in one minute the soon to be completely graybeard will need to continue his allocated time in the digital salt mine.
Control, alt, delete his brain silently commands him to push simultaneously.
The computer screen opens a new box and he inputs his passcode.
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