What is this fog that comes every night rushing, rushing across the tips of pines past curling manzanitas lifting scent off eucalyptus like tomorrow’s portentous whisper? And when the star studded skies emerge I cry because I feel nothing. What I want is that rushing, rushing I want the pregnant promise of everything, anything, and more to resolve my ache to make my tongue taste again- sugar and salt. Remember that violet sunset with a copper core the city skyline flickering possibilities? We are rushing, rushing towards the edge of our beginning in a field of so many endings looking for the manna that may be falling all around which we try to gather as we run we attempt caution- we will fail. Once a brilliant sun sparked the day we met and this was all ahead. For we are reckless after all in the thrall of our rushing rushing headlong into some tomorrow such clarity requires sharper vision such fog demands blind devotion not much longer soon, soon it will all be all right. Yesterday none of this existed and the sky was a blue so pale, it seemed empty.
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Fragile hope against a rushing foreboding future. Crying for an absence of feeling. Such vivid images, Ashley. Gripping.