Driving around a virtual world with the windows down. Blows hot and cold.
Notes in a bottle. Fingernails scratching at the unyielding mica schist in a dungeon, trying to leave some totem of a life. A wounded bird set free in a world of felines.
I didn’t mean nothing by it. I didn’t mean to look. You stood still and the Doppler put you on a carousel, gone loose in the joints, the big, spidery gears smeared with grease and the swarf of a million revolutions. The neon flickers all the time, but sometimes you can pick up the frequency and see the rhythm in it.
Is it a prayer or a curse you offer? Is there a difference?