Nine G.

[tangalae]

early this morning there was this man who arrived at the back door. he came without a sound and fell fast asleep on the porch. tonight the air was cold enough to freeze the moisture in your mouth and as i was tight and warm in bed i rolled over the things i would do in the morning. there were always things to do. without warning i was delivered a man and as he layed cold as stone and still as the sound of morning i was awoke by the sound of cars passing. as morning draws the curtains back from the veil of night i tend to find a hunger growing from the passing of time since ive last eaten. on a cloud of ignorance i float my 40 feet to the place we sit to eat and break bread with myself in preparation for the day to come. a slight jerk, a synapse gone awry shot his boot into recycle bin sending a can to the crisp winter floor and a sound into my ear. without an alarm to my saunter i reach the cold glass of my environmental barrier and exhaled to raise my artists pallette. giving up mid stroke i let my hand slide to my waist but to catch this sight that raised my brow. with nothing but a bird to call the morning and the frost left behind i was delivered a man. sleeping in his cloths with distress his make up i could see his life through my glass. theres nothing to prepair you for when another person is delivered to you without warning. what will you do and who will you seek for the answer? am i in danger or am i the saving grace for which danger is created by my complaciency? how do the circumstances weight your judgment or is your judgment predisposed? are you ready for the anything that you will face or is everything all at once to little to force you to confront yourself ? ... tbc ...

 

[LCK]

I love the stream of consciousness style you write in. This piece reminds me of Virginia Woolf.