threadbare edges of the evanascent day wisps past like blue smoke. that is the perfect time of the day where photographs and still frames coalesce. but it is frustrating when you are holding keys to which could not open any locks. and it is frustrating to play and rewind video tapes that you probably recognise, but only from dreams and not reality.
'erase and rewind.' you said.
but too often you skip right to the second step and miss out. and you rewind the tapes and watch them in chilled silence so many times that you utter deafening whispers and wonder whether it was all a dream... or a memory.
and maybe you wished that it was true. you could evoke and conjure parallel universes of now, but they do not exist. however you could convince yourself that it was all true. that it was all just a matter of time, you could make it come true. real. corporeal. tangible. this are not mere desires; these are flesh and blood manifestations. you fashions locks for the keys you hold now. and you open these very locks, to set yourself in dissipation into the thin air. like the canorous notes of the empyrean heavens.
right now, however, the susurrus of the yellowing leaves of the day is a cacophony that excruciates you. fragments of still frames linger on the floor, shattered memories (dreams?) that are no longer viable to hold in memory. to all these, death, of desires, and dreams, is a logical solution, and consequence, to those, that lose faith, in disenchantment.
and death becomes me. like the evanascent ultramarine smoke dissipating into the hollow maws of the cursed night. and the still frames withers; edges grow ochre like fallen leaves of a wintering autumn.
erase. no rewind required.