An oversized rocking chair, wood slowly splintering as if the emigration of a thousand tiny spines. They rise up, out from within its heavy arms and like flames their flickering reaches for the window. Each one a dusty tear blurring its single eye. In order to watch he tilts his own head, doubt blinded by emotion as they begin to spiral toward the black glass. Lids heavy, his slit of concious drawn to a close by the cacophony of what formally had been such seasonal tides. And so this winter hope's grin springs from the warmth of bulbs, the spread of his desk fallen icy cold. Fingers skate before him and yet still those memories sing, twist his ear lobes first east and then west. As always, the pendulum swings.
Another moon chimes, the attic silence of old unfolding as if a new born flock of wings, air undulating as their limbs slip from the darkness. So once again the sands of time begin to decend, each grain drawn from the crest of mourning, herself a falling lament. Flakes of white, her toes reach for the crumpled yellow canvas, narrow eyes drawn against the tumbling shafts of light. Her lashes palms, their silhouttes stencils, petals enveloped by the eternal blue hearth she waits, for the sun's incandescent ashes to curl around her limbs, begin to swirl within the plams of her cupped hands.