gnubakaduba

there is no green valley, stitched in-between the skull plates of a death like this, nothing to section its low spots into a geography more sensical, less cruel or intricately interleaved enough to dismiss as random or miraculous, there is simply no vein of life to stretch or shape these steps into lesson when imaginations die, they settle and house their need in places like this, in the oil-dusty shed quiet landscape of out-buildings, they settle like workpieces clamped to the point of crush, between jaws of the vice, where their own empty arms meet and remember how the unwavering compression of failure's suffocation can almost feel like lo