merely a signal, a strong counsel for the reconnected. you can feel reverberations, of the disdain for what is left, what you cannot see as you surely know it has been taken, what is no longer capable in where you've been found. the fog-drenched skylines showered in fluorescence, driveways and garages connecting nothing to more of itself, boxes filled with labored sighs, empty forms printing.

it is a malleable apparition, formed of the only true happenings we have left. you realize, when it aches and pours, there is an intense grounding; through yellowed light, countless hazy fractals of the divine show themselves, are temporarily shunted off to these chthonic fractals, not far from their olympian nests. their endured malaise for only their base springs an awe, that this is all they need come here for, briefs in shallower machinery.

the queen of aching light and noise, enveloped in scattered horns and alarms and cries and laughter, is the artist of something else entirely. this is simply what she hears, every night as she works the close, to take her bus home, and blessedly commune with what she has made beautiful of herself. she and her cohorts, musing only of reunion with one another, are pure still, and we must celebrate that revelation, the only one we now have.