Scape

My teeth hurt again. I begin to imagine that the gods are trying to speak to me through my ailing body, but what would they say that I have not already shouted from the roof tops. The city is plunged into a polar vortex of unimaginable proportions; every step is a brutal reminder of its power. I take long baths, refill with only hot water and resurface dizzy. Another hospital is bombed in Syria. Religious terrorists hijack supposedly democratic elections and the land of the free is unrecognizable sometimes in daylight. My sister comes to town and it's the last time she'll sleep, alone, in my home. Next time everything is different.

The world falls apart around me and I don't know if it is enough to count down days until spring. The sets are all so perfectly manicured but none of it is real when you run your finger nails across the surface. David Bowie continues to create magic after he is dead.

You only create layers of dust. You're barely alive, as is.