Shield my eyes from April’s glare, because now that you’re gone, you appear everywhere in these fresh seasons that struggle to grow through the last kernels of dark, hardened snow. But all production halts; we don’t resist as gods withdraw their remaining services. And bands dissolve. Leases terminate. A great silence then descends on you, until birds explode from the branches up above, darkening your path only briefly, then leaving you the canvas of the sky to reconstruct their movements in your head. And each street then accumulates these ghosts, because art is not a luxury...oh no, no. And it must proceed undeterred by all unconscious opposition, anyway. Thoughts scrawled on discarded receipts or backs of cash-handling procedure sheets, on unpaid breaks, in highlighter pen until the senses overload; a fog rolls in. And then arriving home so tired tonight that I don’t think that I’ll bother to write, though the press of ideas, neglected like this will find expression in dreams...dense dreams, where Chorus. To be no longer just a vessel for our hungers; or, at least, to transform these hungers into something bright and astonishing that nourishes itself. Yeah. And then the birds explode...
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