cold this is sunlight feeding in the dark recesses of candour; he reaches out, tentative and still a little shaky - a rupturing of the cell walls, the heat gone, and brittle with sudden freezing. And he couldn't tell whether or not the shiver in his spine was from the cold, or premonition of a new and faceless future - he held a future in his head a while, divining something that he couldn't quite grasp. And how could I know it was new? there being no features to distinguish between. I only know that somewhere in the twistings of black cat's-cradles, stars lie; this is enough sorrow - let the exploration of it finish soon... quickly, let it finish. (In its eyes move red flecks, float mute and unwashed specks of fear. It's terrified of tears now, watches women (watches their wet mouths) laugh at its anxiety - they're laughing now, look. And wants them, wants to dry their mouths with fear, with begging...) In these silences white crevices appear, sightless and uneven - the softness of this melancholy's worse, is somehow sharper than mere harshness would be. And that is not a tear; is just a ripple of regret, warm, softened, penetrating. But he can't know whether or not the connection is made, he can't know whether the unmelted snows are still lying deep in the hollows of the seasons... hands are here with him, gently beneath and lifting him, easing his lacerated body, his limbs held. Not in the circlings of lakes, or in the slow journeys of birds flying across bounded distance. Quickly, let it finish.
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