Tuesday 1/26/2010 12:51:00 AM

Scolded by the obvious. Leaking windows and heavy shades. She pastes an hour on her chest and waits. For time to notice it is missing. She imagines her time machines in red and blues. But black and white is all she ever gets.

Symptoms she insists. Not to be treated nor allayed. But to lead us to the disease that causes them. Mother in their warm beds. Calling their children to witness them die. Time travellers hoping to quell this apocalypse called trust.

Righting the rose with thorns as measure. Stopping the locomotive with a handful of pennies. The impossible threatening everything.

The pretense she says is practical. When nothing is real. The paradox is necessary. To know you've arrived at the correct funeral.

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