like the rains outside

the secret places, the place of secrets, the places where secrets unfold. place of answers without questions, place of questioning answers. because there's always another layer to it. another way of putting it in order. another way of climbing up reason's untenable stair, rapping the fist against the door and wait - wait - there's something here. there's something i ought to be writing about. some thing deep inside the imagination, where matters go thick over a long slow flame, where matters permeate the dish towels and curtains, calling up their memory in an instant, over the course of an hour. maybe sometimes never quite realized but, then again, who could say?

we were always going to end up like this, i think. horrible though it may be, this is how we were going to end up. scattered to the four winds, blowing off into eternity: somewhere the wind has to stop. i mean, that's a trajectory that must conclude, whether it dwindles gradually or in a blunt scissored chop. everything ends, that's the name of our game. that's where this is going. the point of no return. like it or not, 'til death us do part, either/or, 'til part us do death. most of us do not like it, this inevitable course of termination, even though we are frequently saved, if not just simply relieved, by the truth. because if everything ends, that means what is horrible and insufferable, annoying or plain bad must end, as well. and then, and then, and then, and then: roll up to the start, to the new beginning, to the who the where the what it will go. are you listening? are you listening for it? do you know where to turn your ears? do you know how to tune your ears? listen.

then again?
who even knows.
i never did.