A book I never finished. I’m not sure why. It has a butterfly on the cover. There was a garden, cigarettes and cricket songs. There might not have been but it’s the image I’m left with. Journals. Relationships yet to be formed. Prose poetry. Is it one thing or the other? Or neither? Automatic. It should be but it’s not. Nothing less. Less than what? Less than the obstacles set solid before my frontal lobes. Fingers pressing on a forehead, moving to warm sunken eye sockets to trace the lines of the lids. Horizontal. A tear releases from one duct and meanders over the bridge to settle in the next. Not settle, pause and fragment to the temple. Still falling. Wrapped in dark, soft strings drawing lines of light through the empty space and cocooning the elsewhere. A tambourine tapping the seconds which quickly dissolve into morning. The nights never enough. Walls torn to strips, drawn to the water and the hum from the speaker. The taps and the tiles and the curved stairs to the attic. The vinyl, the wrong sound. Break to think. To consider the selfishness in need. Blurry snake arms and pulsing head. Thoughts too heavy to hold, sinking to the stomach and settling, quietly, in a spent pelvis, weighted with the studded leather of a Eurotrash lounge. Brass in the background. The intensity audible. The top bunk and the typewriter. Sadness. Loss. A moment interrupted, uneternal.