it's the end of the world again. all confetti skins and broken trumpets. the red lights have their abundance. the intersections have their interrupted hypotheses.
the math is callous. the unfortunate plunder of chaos and inertia presses the wind. the algebra is bent. folded and grieved. ripe veins still moist against the desiccated bones of the beast.
the solitude is its own dialogue. of indeterminate volume and weight.
it's nothing she can barter. it's everything she's spent. the rich paradox of her humanity as she chases the distance that remains.