Indefinite Causalities

The salvage. In drunken epiphanies. Absolves the flesh of ghosts. Turning. As if on parched steroids. The meat thick and empty with a pious sickness. She kneads the dough. Flesh in various stages of gluten. The risen. And the rising. Warm. Frantic atoms punch at the stove. In a failing heat. A lazy blend of physics and words. Where we find ourselves. Left. Hostages of so many futures. Chewing on the past's meatless bones.

I would always try on the costume only to give up too soon. That I could change. That such a construct was viable. The skin usurping the soul.

In little windows where I watched the sedans parked too close together. The hush of coming and going. In small denominations. The whisper of trust detectable behind the cacophony of straining hinges. The doors opens. The road is closed.

The travel. In fits of ampersands. The Boolean expectation. That it can be found. The hole deep enough to prove that the one inside is mutable.

The ceiling on the depth. Converse. And quite apathetic. As I twist the mirror to see. A pity of choices. Deaf stories. Blind portraits. Happy to oblige. The paradox of when.

We were. Those people. We can't remember. Those people. We've always been.