Plumbed out crickets

Plugging away in the plumbed-out space. Parties peering through the memories.

Another wasted year. Cauliflower crickets call charmingly. Creating cacophonous collages.

In another dimension, frogs. Bats. Water aflame.

Wandering down the twisted path. Straight, straight, down.

Up, what is down? Sideways angles. Take this turn, then this other one. End up right back at the beginning.

But is it? The beginning has ended. The beginning…. it ended when it began.

What about the ending? Does it begin when it ends? Does the end, end?

Snakes. Eating tails.

Bears, eating paws. Stuck in metal teeth. Mink.

Free writing. First learned in 2002? 2003?

A lifetime. A college. Two colleges. Many jobs. Two very wrong decisions.

Heartbeats. Heartbeats. Hearts beating.

What if the beating stops?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

A clock ticks. A beginning and an ending.

And a middle, no matter how short. Time passes. Time we can not see, smell, hear, or otherwise detect.

Passing through the fruit of the looms. Loins?

Choices, for one beginning to become another beginning it’s its own choices, decisions, beginnings, and endings.

And don’t forget the middle. The shades of grey. The extremes. The middle. The moderate.

Moderate? Moderation is for monks.

Monks. Meditation. Silence.


Then this thing.



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