How, among a hall of chandeliers, does one firefly spin into darkness, twirling as a drunk who’s opened the door to weightlessness?
I feel I’m struggling to hold onto the vision of things. I am an impatient wheel, distracted.
You are in my thoughts. You’re not a light that is going out, but one that is reaching further beyond where you thought you would–so the fireflies feel strained, but their only growing in their influence.
Hold on– the door to weightlessness only seems ages into the dark.
What the brain takes in, it can only transcribe–you think doors or the weight of bodies / thoughts are petticoats to the brain? No, the transcription is a letter the brain hands itself in the dark, having forgotten what was written.