Black Jacket

Chucked across the table – across the plastic bag clouds – like the sudden coming of night. The black jacket is the ether that mediates beneath the earth and the heavens. Twisted and labyrinthine, with soft curves and folds. I sit quietly near it – no music tonight – remembering the dusk light outside, the grey water, the glittering cargo ships, the retreating light of the coast. I was following the headlands as they dropped toward the horizon. But now it is the jacket that looms above everything, above my memories, above a day spent doing very little (lying limply on my bed). It seems to suggest that the universe is here regardless. It descends down to the level of my table. It is just above my fingers typing on these keys, as I search for words to escape the terrors of thought. While I have no wish to contemplate the future, there is no time like the present to discover the unravelling of dreams.

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