Patient Numbers Sad with Arithmetic

Trying on the conveyor belt she wondered what the machines would make of her. Now. And then. This obvious convergence. Happening to us. At every breath. The callous mathematics of skin. Constantly subtracting from the sum.

Now. and Then. Feeble guesses on the continuum. Fluttering. Faint butterflies. Pressing their wings too close to the sun. It always rains. It never does.

Thoughtless gears and habitual pistons. Cutting that same die from so many different women. Those moments abandon us. As we flirt with bored gods. Real comes with beveled edges. The heavy rain comes only after the drought has been exhausted.

It's always why. It's always when. The machine is always there. The fuel comes later. I can't tell time at all. It's different in every instance. Dirty curtains cover the windows. That pretend to know the world out there. Greasy finger prints soil the knob on the door. That doesn't go anywhere.

It always rains. It never does. When you're travelling time. And when you finally decide to stop. It's still the same.

It's always raining. It never is.