Patterns draw themselves across the numbness. Years in brittle leaves that crumble against the dire thrust of the wind. The cold comes calm and abrupt. Like all monsters will. With clenched fists and torn eardrums. Trying to grab. Desperate to hear. What teases in the distance.

Patterns she instructs. Are not chosen. Are not to be deciphered. They watch. They decide. Whether or not we fit.

Every number is a whore. Giving away the things that have cost us too much. Selling for pennies what we assume to be priceless. The ladder stops short of infinity. Teasing at its dominance.

No end. No beginning. Only the hours pressed between. Gravity and choice. That make the void so tempting.

Patterns. Cowards and victims. The subtle equilibrium of naked dolls. Pigs. And whores. Frail machines and impotent monsters. Beating on reflections in the glass. Countless. Growling. Gaping holes. Separating the disease from the cure.

Patterns she claims. Are all that we are. A long series of stumbles. Slouching towards Bethlehem.

Seal the cellar with pus. Infected limbs tugging on the needles. The thread. Which sews the frowns onto empty faces. Pieces of pieces of the puzzle. Kings sneak up behind their pawns. And do what they please. The world stomps. A lumbering Goliath. Taking all. Then irate. When there's is nothing left to steal.

Turn the clock on its side. counting backward until the battery is dead. Time does wait. It's always waiting for life to start. Turn up her dress and blame the pussy for being there. Yawning and helpless. Without something inside. Every hole is hungry. For something to fill it.

Chase the puppets beneath her flesh. knotted strings imitating the dance. Revel in the thunder between her legs. An empty box pretending the music.

Time travel she explains is a condition of futility. It happens all the time. No one notices. The future torn and mended in countless variations. We just wear the costumes. Not interested in what is under the masks.

It's simple arithmetic. Perhaps a small dose of physics. It's a million small things combining to make the whole. It's blisters on the throat of the portal. As it mouths the words.

No machines required. The stutter of motors. choking on the momentum. Cold finger tips. Calculating the weight. Of living . In panics of when. She could still reason with the monsters.

Or go back. To before she needed them.

Time travel she warns. Changes nothing.

We'll always be small.

Brick on her toes. The vanity of choices. Flaunting the coalescence of gravity. How far have I walked. Am I even close. To where I want to be. The dilemma. Choices. Which blade to use. Which throat to slit.

The circumference of her skin betraying. The perimeter of her stare. Small things. The curdle of her smile as he slithers inside. The echo of the corridor as she tries to decide. What empty is.

Stones on her eyelids. Decisions are rape. Forcing the skin away from the bones. Choices are the measurement of how much it hurts.

The door closes. The stairs envy our footsteps. Stubborn mathematicians with only zeroes left. The atom in its excitement forgets how fragile we are. Choices.

Splinters of skin. Finding the maps. But no treasure. Shallow cuts. Deciding. Who we'll be next.

Her foot dangles on the edge. Raping the weaker instances of gravity. Her lips pucker with the sweet pull of poison. A corner piercing her throat as the hour trundles past. The angles define the space. The lack determines the how. She's a circle. All the distances are equal. All the edges are blunt.

We can multiply. Let ourselves be haunted. By the obsolete machines that infect our skin. The edge. In butterfly's wings. The weight of gravity in whispers. I still hear even in my deafness.

We can subtract. Remove the pistons from this fleshy machine. And let inertia do the rest. Playing the gods we wish were there. Acting the devils we need to blame.

We can divide. Ignore the mass. Saving the tug of gravity for another day.

I'm weightless. Let me fall. I was going to anyway.

Colors spoil in the dark. Wilting atlases. Loosing their grip on the Earth. The confession is that I've been here before. I know this place. The thunder of her smile and the whisper of her tears.

The wings and the sun conspiring against foolish optimists. Flight exists to facilitate the fall. Gravity tugs. But we are stronger. For a moment. Crayons and matchbooks in an elementary chemistry. Puddles of skin still turning red. The physics. of strangers. The fierce pull of the void. Manipulating the villains I've come to trust.

The atoms in their rush leave us behind. A jumble of molecules. Weighing the nothing.

A witch in the corner with her nose in the oven. Her candy house melting.

Choices sick with decision. Cutting the dolls from the paper.

She swallows her confessions. In small bites. Chewing slowly. Bones on the bell chime. With a rusted urgency. It's never over. It always is. It's been a lonely journey. Looking for the places between the choices.

Finding out that they don't remember.

Pulling the decisions from the wounds in her flesh. It's the blood. It's always the blood. That they want. The years are full of it. A lifetime of red.

You can't build a time machine without that sliver of weakness. It's the pain that makes it true. It's the ache that provide the combustion.

When the silence is so sure. I still possess this defiant machine. The fist of this beating heart. Punching me hard. In the face.

The wolf in the wardrobe tries on grandmother's dresses. What big eyes. The basket full of goodies slips into her underpants. What big teeth. What big teeth it has.

Warts on her eyes. Threading through the naught. Thieves in the copper. Kill the batteries again. The occasional chemistry of sorrow becoming constant.

It's back there. It's back there she says. In the dewy creases between here and madness. It's back there, but I can't get to it. Not without choosing what is gone forever.

She takes the mirror in doses. Fragile medications peddle their diseases. In winters. That have forgotten how to end. She rubs her matches against the rough. Trying to remember what the spark was.

Years ago she knew who I was. Stiff planks of wood pressing the blade into the bone. The meat drawn to the sharpness. As if it knew. Mercy is reserved only for those who have suffered enough.

The prick of her laugh. As I would manipulate the atoms in her gullet. A bucket full of holes. And me with not enough fingers to plug all of them. Her cowardice made her brave. She'd given up on fear. Her smile made me weak. Breaks in the fabric between this world and the next. And me with my hammer. And no nails.

We went that way for ages. Time let us pass. We hid in the metal and the wires. Like small sparks unable to ignite. We counted the millennia. As the world grew old and sick. Helpless to cure it.

We were just children. Lost in the machinations of men. Watching the world end.

Eyes like stones. Small shards of what once was a massive boulder. Kisses like paper cuts. No blood. Just broken skin. Rivers of shame carving arrows through the flesh. In quiet apocalypses.

Time on its pedestal. The minutes buzzing like flies. Over the spectacle. The open graves. As the numbers turn to corpses. Subtracting. Not winning. Only cheating the start. Multiplying. Not arriving. Just pretending it's gone.

The villains know their algebra. The equations of evil stem from good intentions. The heroes know their physics. One atom. That's all that's needed. To save the world. But neither of them can explain. Why it's worth saving.

In a cellar of dirty dolls and cracking glass. Good and evil are a crippling cliche. Everything is a war. Cold fingers scour the darkness for new wounds. For a better Satan. One that can cure me of these useless angels in my head.

Every choice has its end. Every surface. No matter how strong. A weight at which it gives.

targets sway. weapons are fixed. zippers open. to reveal. endless staircases. littered with empty gloves and broken clocks. the crippled machine tickles the edges of the chasm. as i attempt to calculate. how long it's been.

curious devils with their gnarled sticks. beating the drums shamed angels have abandoned. it's still a song either way. the echo of footsteps as the ladder collapses. an epic earthquake no one feels. the rumble in my fingers. a weak substitute for all the destruction that remains muted.

the hours reveal their ruptures. soundless volcanoes. cold fires burn nothing. adjusting her mask she sees the abyss's temptation. everything is so far away. i must get closer.

the sheep are gone. replaced by starving wolves. cannibals one and all. waiting for the needle. a nefarious prick of sanity amid a dense stampede. of loudly trumpeting elephants. and the crisp crack of the cockroaches that piqued their rage.

the patchwork. the quilt. as time knits its manic games. checkerboards and rolling dice. stealing the tongues of sages.

the sheep are eaten. the hungry wolves all that remain. we can kill them. but we'd still be hungry. we can keep waiting. measure the progress in blinks and twitches. but madness always seems to evolve more quickly than reason.

the patterns converge. rippling pistons in the back of her throat. choking on the words. he went there. all i wanted was to follow. in the footsteps of those fading ghosts.

everything was numbers. the mechanics were a breath away. but the idea. that's what did me in. the thought bigger than the prison i had built for it. so many the monsters in the cellar wanting to know their names.

i wish that i could tell them.

but all i know is when.

the rumble of motors turning lovers to strangers. the screech of the brakes. warning me not to forget.