pithless

the night has released its spores; the slow decay bubbles and murmurs below the stretching surface of artificial light. Most are fast within their chambers, lapped at by the ethereal waters of their dreams. But for those still sucking public air, there would be no need of the blanket of still. The trees silent in their boles. The buildings cease to clamor across the surface of the land, and the voices of humans and machines doppler and reverberate, or do they?
The sound of footsteps at night could be the same as those in the day, after all. But sounds (and other peoples' things) can not hang as long in the day's thin air. They follow a straight line to an early undoing. The lost and the tribes of the lost and their attendants do best not to prick the ears of the stalking phantoms with their silences. And what the day has taken from them dangles ahead before the morning's gate, separated by an infinity of unknowing and surrender from where we were just now. Cassanita: Rob stopped by, he's sorry he missed you. There is a heavy kitchen knife hidden behind a pipe in the stairwell. Strawberry Jones is not allowed on the premises (5.6 Black Female). And Rosy: that guy was here, came to keep you company he says. He likes to keep you company, he says, and from that I know that you are either capable of stone cold indifference or you are a creature of exuperate compassion, sympathy or whatever it is that these words are bound by connotations never to express. Anyways, he's pushed back the release of his rap album to 2017 because 'first impressions are long impressions' and you can't go in to an A&R office with shit. Gotta buy house for his momma-who yes ok is involved with the Gambini crime family and boy is that a rich story mine but it was she that passed on to him his proliferate sweetness, because it sure wasn't...