closer, too close beginnings, it’s said have no spoken language being led by the hand through his head, slideshow style long, unruly hair fell on his face sighing wearily in his embraces we recognize our own rejected thoughts as sudden as the rapture there is no one else left now in this ocean of perfume the burned thatch, the ruined stonework it is dark, it is ancient, and it is deep. what happened next was almost silent pale blue mornings failed to deepen reducing blacks to greys shutters banging in the wind no trace, no suggestion it was just another tuesday never again to return never again to return