Updated: Jul 29, 2019
Upon me is the notion of time, a time that has been lost in foggy memories, obnoxious Sundays, a time drown in collective pain. He seeks a train track, emptied by the change in seasons, stained by blood under the shadows of a heavy machine, now decaying by the long and narrow roads on the coast. When the vessels took the last of our men to a distinct landscape, they saw a place where the tress were abandoned by ill children and the lakes kept all the secrets and the thoughts and the cancers of the old world. They saw the islands in the sky with red eyes and open chests, we all hurt.
We see a time that leaks through the cracks on my walls, we see a grey wolf conquering an young army and its dead soldiers, we see the distant love thundering above the city, we see the lack of it all and everything else. We seek comfort in the shape of bottled plagues, portable telephones and automobiles.
Our times beware, said the mad man on the corner of Main Street. Our times are the last of the times, concludes the street-prophet as his trembling hand reaches for a small vodka bottle in the darkness of his paper bag, Plato's dark cave. Busy faces connected to a distant, vague and higher world walk by: indifferent, fearful, ignorant, mostly ignoring the changes of the tide, the mad man's words and the pain brought to all of us each time the clock walks toward the edge of God's cliff. All we see are the shadows on the walls of our caves.