What comes are the different colors of blue. As the sun is dispensed with, the wavelength lengthens. Here is the city, again, stupidly, gloriously, and the night is seeping in and softening all the edges. Lapis city, gold-spangled, cyaneous. A blue with volume and heft. Someone says my name; I’m late, but I wasn’t invited.
What comes are the vile tones, the acid glances. The terse orders. The errors, creeping in. It’s unseemly when adults panic, and also instructive. Every moment, character is being revealed. They are dissolved into their vigorous debating, their selves are gone, they’re fully “present” with each other. There is no delicate sentiment possible. A nuance is annihilated every minute. They seem relieved, joyful.
What comes are the annihilatingly complete cartographic mental maps of words and pictures, sorted in their stations, arrayed in space and time. Spinning Bruno’s wheel: wherever it rests, I recite. Saturn’s Fifth: One dressed in black with a dark countenance in whose right hand a Basilisk twists its claws round to its tail. Mercury’s Sixth: A Man in the garb of a Merchant and Way-Farer having his eyes turned to the sun and his hands stretched forth. I am constantly, endlessly compiling things that accumulate, and through collection, form their own gravity. These things end up towing me around. I dangle mutely in the breeze of generation, moving piles. There is a form of acedia which is unexpected and lurks in deliberately avoiding living up to the obligations of one’s own reality, of what one incontrovertibly is, in the sense of “avoiding one’s destiny.” Another sense of acedia is that of the indifferent. I struggle to fit myself into a protective armor of indifference. What is the term when one commits acedia via mindless generation?
What comes are the capital markets lizards. They smell cash. They’re drawn to drink at the deal flow. They creep. Their eyes are beady and clear and dead. I think of the phrase “clean cut”: sliced out neatly, with an edge.
What comes is a deep oscillation in the soul’s root. One begins to wonder whether one is wrong in holding pain as a placeholder while waiting for the greatest emotion. Prayers that are weighted with glum torpor do not rise. Torment is worthless.
What comes are the delirious dreams of exit. No one belongs here: these are places to be gone along for purposes and then dispensed with, and never mind that those purposes consume the better part of every day. There is the air, turning opaque, and the first snow of the year is shining in the lights.