Days when the clock chimes the crying hour, when you have to hide out in the basement of a smile just to feel some relief.
Days when you’re moving forward in a story told in reverse, when you don’t need sad orchestral strings to cue the depression caused by world aggression.
Days poised between gods and bombs, bolt-action aggression fueling a not-so-secret society of snarls.
When you have to arm wrestle restless angels for the last piece of bread.
When you’re forced to sleep on a bed of Monday’s rough syllables, when you’re moving backward in a story told forward.
Days whose shadows grow long, as if they’re reaching for pages torn from the book of life.
RichRant 