Part Eleven
The void erupts. I'm betrayed by my calculations. Worn too tightly by these lingering bonds.
I crawl back inside my machine.
More refugee than traveler.
the years stiffen as my weight presses on their corners.
It's destroyed all my maps. It's demolished all my clocks.
I'm someplace. I'm someone. Counting the steps to where I was. Chasing a decaying portrait that scarcely resembles the faces I've discarded.
Time spends us. in little lies. that devour our truth. Touch is our only anchor against the encroaching void.
Our machines move us against the yearnings of our flesh.
We’re nickels and dimes in its fickle thoughts. we're the choices that overcome once the knots are cinched too tight.
How far. How close. It's the distance that decides who we are.
when there are no words left to spoil. when hours have all gone sour. time still carves its mazes. and we fumble for the exit. blind mice running up broken clocks.
I run. Deafened by the thunder of my footsteps. Shuffling the years like loose pages. Letting the words consent. as our monsters begin to chew on the edges.
We linger inside this capsule. Going nowhere. Content to watch the world collapse.
We’re not supposed to see the structure. We’re not meant to know the reasons. We’re too weak to reconcile the enormity of our insignificance.
.
But inside this box everything is all too clear.
The distance calls me by name. That person is gone. Consumed by change.
Time strikes its match. setting everything on fire.
For a moment we burn brightly.
And then it's dark.