hursday. Soft light. The motherlode. Sheets of absurdity rain down in clumsy torrents - silence bends each rule of acoustics. Hands are too soft to pick it up. All this sharp grief. All this grief that spins a virile web through the doorways; the hearts; beneath foundations - a pounding tapestry; a garotte for the unctuous air. This silence isn't. Frozen polyphony, idling for the multilayered thaw of another grey day, washed in tomorrow's same grey tub. color-drained, bleached of meaning: it's not silence - this hibernating sound - an ear to a wall declares there is always something gasping, some small sound given to something that should be unheard of. Silence. The last bankrupt vein has been fed; the last girl, beaten; the last vile name sleeps in a violent breath. 4am and it peals from the carpets and the bedsprings, and the spot outside the door where the man, machete depleted, lay bleeding. Everything screams - quietly. The line's end. Too numb to be terrified.
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