thejunkyardprocession revamped | Page 61

akeim buck? I surrender myself to this meak and meagre day. Eyes and mind alive with coffee but dull with stimulation; death creeps in like the shadow cast from any other wayfaring stranger. My memories pale, I fear for further losses at already losing battles. That the weary hinges that staple all relevance and meaning to dim visages of experience will falter under the weight of my carelessness and self-harm. I often burden myself with a confusion between regard and disregard for my health. Does it not stem from my inability to grasp the unknown and the seemingly absurd? The walks down time's narrow and flat paths remain undisturbed in spite of all observers and subjects, in spite of themselves they continue to tread. But now I look through my window and I see the tiny speckles of light, like sand littering the darkened monolith of the flats in the distance, little saucers lamping countless evenings spent at home; I can't help but wonder what less grace and serenity these wintry vistas would have beyond the stake of their context. 61