Daylight, Dawn and Evening

“Grave Robbers”

The lights in my mind had been turned off. Conscientiousness had taken a leave of absence and the place was currently subletting. It was Winter. The hours felt austere with their inability to hold the day. I could no longer endure the melancholy of undressed trees and dry grass. The very notion of snow lacked all nostalgia and only brought a sense of loathing. I was in a rut.

Gaspare

I found a pleasant place to sit and gather my thoughts; I was listening like I meant it. And though the wind and ash scarred my face, I was at ease.

However fond of the Art of Peace, I found myself constantly struggling with the reality of cowardice.

I feel strange: like an open wound in the cold wind. In this case everything I am is the wound and emptiness is the cold wind.

Dream: Fog rolling. Trench. Dirt. Shells exploding. Whistle blows. We charge over the ridge; men around me shredded to pieces. Machine gun fire like cat eyes: demonic and esoteric. Earth like sheets of rain. Tenderness. Throbbing. Hit in the shoulder. Darkness.

Awake: Cold sweat. Awkward sense of loneliness. Blood.