hiatus (prev. damnseason)

[ID: image reads: “I want an eternity made of glass. the secret to holding something up for so long is to imagine the shards at your feet, the ones that you’ll have to step through to run from your mistakes. I want an eternity made of glass, one which will shatter into a million pieces once I can’t hold it any longer. dropping the snow globe is an easy way out. by running from anything you ask it to chase after. by dropping the glass you’re asking for an ending. closing of a door. locking of a door. this is a place where good taste goes to die. snow globes with entire worlds inside. globe inside a globe. I want an eternity made of glass, mirror facing another mirror facing its reflection and waiting to fall off the wall. a stalemate of sorts. the secret to holding something up for so long is imagining the impact of its fall. the glass shards, the bad luck that comes from a broken mirror. the windows of a home really just point inward. this is a place where good taste goes to die, where the curtains are always shut, so no one can see when the snow globe falls off the shelf or the eternity made of glass hits the floor when you forget how to hold it up.” END ID]

roses in the centre of a table. table is square, and you keep stubbing your toe on its legs. poor table, the legs won’t help it to move from that spot. elbows on the table while you’re waiting. it’s rude, don’t you know. elbows off the table. legs crossed, legs uncrossed. rose loses a petal to a non-existent breeze. rose loses a petal. rose loses a petal. shadow creeping across the table. poor table, it’s getting dark and it can’t move. poor table, it’s covered in petals and elbows and shadow. elbows on the table. it’s only rude if you interpret it as such. it’s only rude if you notice. legs crossed, legs uncrossed. table staring at the movement of the legs, wonders why it can’t cross its own, wonders if perhaps less people would stub their toes if it could. rose losing a petal in the non-existent frenzy. rose losing a petal. rose losing a petal. sun coming up again, light creeping across the table. still sleeping under its cloth, dreaming of legs it might cross. still sleeping, still dreaming. toes stubbed on its legs, shocked awake. elbows on the table. it’s rude not to sweep away the petals but there the petals remain. elbows on the table, head on the table. rose loses a petal to the morning drowsiness. legs crossed, legs uncrossed. table watches jealously. rose loses another petal. rose loses a petal. rose loses a petal. someone had better clean those up. time to leave the table. table wonders where those legs go. table wonders what else there is but the kitchen and the cloth and the roses and the light and the elbow and the legs crossed under the table. rose loses a petal. rose loses a petal. poor roses. poor table. sunset and silence. dining room world. table imagines another dining room, all sunlight. table imagines another dining room, all darkness. table imagines legs. rose loses one last petal and is gone when the table wakes up.” END ID]