August 24. 12:52 am.

Counting all the way up to the shadowy light out in the fields. Numbers, shouting them out, but can't see who's out there listening. There's movement out there, but too dark. There's strange noises out there. The lamplight doesn't reach out that far. But that light reaches me, inspects me. I shudder and hurry indoors. I lock all the doors and pull the pistol out of the box in the closet. I check the doors again while I load it. I sleep delicately, paranoid dreaming.
The light is calling. The fields are empty.
****
A staunch building, facades frowning. A sense of mis-placed territories, and obsolete cartography. A map caught in the wind blows by, gobbled up by the foreign geography. The sun beating down, blocking all passage. A hand traces a line to follow, and you obey, willingly. Eventually night comes and you still are lost, and your companion has become silent, since time seals all lips inevitably. A magic word, and back in the sunshine, light breeze, perfect day, back in time. Lips are alive again, mumbling false and idiot hopes. Performing a sculpture in the naked air with your hands, the stroke of a hip and torso, the rounded shell of a shoulder. You spread your fingers, and the body is faded, but I still see it hanging in the air. It will always remain there. When I walk past, ten years later, it will recognize me and extend its arm, make a sign. Ten years for a sign.
*****
The grass, in the morning there is the grass, damp, soaking up the sounds of night; now a silence bound to the sunrise, quiet. What is sunlight on my cheek, the brush of a flower pedal, a fruit picked? The scurry of life, the pad of wings, is everything there? May I open this gift, loosen the bow, tear away the vestmental robes? What is human instinct? What is the body saying? Translate the message of the lungs, the liver, the heart. What does the stomach want to say? Is it all inside or coming inward? Is it all chemicals or something a bit more human? Are we chemistry in play? Remembering ashtanga, forgetting ashtanga, how did it work?
The echo of something in the air, a familar scent, chemical.
The record skips, and i lift the needle.
I place it down somewhere near you, and the melody traces your shape, lifting with your breath. You are sleeping and so are you.
I stay awake and think, playing that song over and over.