out into the night he stood facing the dark way, until so much time had passed that he grew more nervous and clutched his fingers in his palm leaving red finger marks on his skin; the moon was shadowed by thick clouds and it was warm and there was no sweat on his face or arms or chest. he moved into it. it was bleary, it was mush, the way was clouded by something thick and like eyeballs that had cried so much everything looked different. this was difficult and he would sometimes grind his teeth a little bit as he kept on moving, but that was the key, to be relentless and persistent sacrificing even the thought of preserving your life. he was afraid but the idea was stronger than the fear and so he was able to move forward.

there was a shrill song of bird as it lashed through the air and then again and again it dipped; the sound of screams inside, the beating drum faraway, the dull sound of fans that had been spinning forever from cause of the heat and toxic fumes. there was nowhere to turn and it was a bad feeling. something must be done to combat it, but what. endless lists were made in mind and they were almost solutions; but each thing was weak or not attractive enough, the desire for perfection was too great. it was a way of battle, and often times there was only losing. it was the chance for a perfect win though that made striving all the more maddening and relentless. like a gambler on a heater, knowing deep inside themselves that in any moment all would be lost. the human chance at greatness for some is unavoidable even in failure. some fall prey to it early, some seek it when time seems shorter. it is all the same. it is always the same. what good is there, what bad is there when it all becomes blurred when time is the best judge and sometimes there isn't enough life to see the outcome.

the morning started clear with kisses on the cheek on the left side of her face as she slept near the corner; the validity of this claim came that it produced a sense of ease and safeness. for one he had slept there before she had slept there and now she clutched the pillow and woke with big eyes moving along his own studying them for love. this was accrued and stored safely somewhere deep for when the nightmares were at their worst and in a dream she would hold out what she found powerful to defeat whatever there was threatening her. as the day followed it was spent in the production of art. smoke would curl out of the window at times, intervals of thought and kissing, the play of sunlight wound from one window to the next, feeding all the plants and at the end where we are not yet, it dipped below the mountains. there were intense moments of sex as she was languid and touched in all places with a great smile, content and pleased and he was able to become calm and painterly in each touch on soft skin then she would bite and claw in lust and they would move madly with resonance of each other; the pile of art grew in corners, on the floor there were spills from paint and water and oil that made the paint more liquid and it accrued on the bottom of their feets, and hands. the temples of her head were made to look like native american marks. they wore underwear and barely left the room. food was brought up on white plates: noodles, pineapple, bacon, eggs, toast, quesadillas, salads, and cheese sandwiches. beers collected on the desk, on the bookshelf, on the window ledge. the great way became apparent to him at least, and as he could never know for sure, he assumed she saw it as well. on the bed in places where love was not being made where neither would lay naked and it was a big bed there were magazines and cut outs and scraps of image. these were idea machines of the present time, and they were sorted to delight by the maker, her / him. in the evening the sound of music penetrated the rows of houses, street, grass & trees because the window was always open, and she made art and he made art and together they lapsed time with each other so that the anxiety of dying was gone and it was replaced by a beautiful calm that he had never known. there are points that mark life, and in these as time passes comes the slow realization that these things are important, that life can be marked by moments rather than what comes ahead or with what may come or a manipulation of how something will come. each moment to be cherished as much as possible. over time it may become immortal to whoever had experienced it and it may writhe and find new shape and new things. this play is intoxicating before sleep in the late of night especially alone and staring at nothing but the thoughts of the mind. when it finally came that they looked at each other and wanted each other the day had vanished and it was now them dreaming in sleep. but the art and what was made was all still there. they brought tears and so much.

the silence that follows is great. the books of the world show it well, and they are good tools in showing the power of silence. weaving between noise and quiet are the fingers. the taste of another human's lips and of their skin, and the way each one feels unique and different, and each smell and each way of looking and the way each one sips and gets drunk, and speaks; and their way is great.

in the dark at night amongst the bushes and wire grass strands and pots, the thrush sleeping in a tree, a stone carved demon idol vacantly muses on its condition. it stands upright until wind or a foot or tail knocks it down and then it gets to gaze at the sky and trees and at the color blue and maybe a tempest and sunlight beats into all its facets hammering on it.