The liberty at which I make off with my time is fabulous, not a bit of loss in sight. Carefully constructed walls of obfuscation hide my most perverse inner dealings from plain view, and I can sit, stand, kneel, or pray at my leisure and oblivion.
Yet in the pale moonlight the caudecus glows, a reminder of the whys and wherefores of why I am here and not there, for here is where I am meant to be based on the simple fact that I am here, and if I were somewhere else, that is where I would be meant to exist. Heisenberg in transit: if I see myself in the mirror, do I really know where I am?
Calliope noise in the darkness, the smell of cotton candy and electricity, the call of children to the flashing lights and excitement of the carnival midway. Pays yer money, takes yer chances. Eyes open and it all fades, all but the lingering smells that morph into something darker, more sinister, before fleeing into the good night.
A warm touch on my shoulder, a moment of recognition and happy quietness before the memory floods in that I am alone, and the touch sends a chill down my spine
(no one is there)
and my heart leaps, afraid: what witchcraft is this then? But I know what witchcraft it is, I know this witch from her days of glory.
I invite her in. I am lonely.
She sits beside me, cool and pale, beautiful in that way that only she can be, sad but comforting. We talk into the night; I tell her tales of my misspent youth, and she sings me the songs that only the trees know, songs of the spring rivers and summer sun, and when she holds out her hand I take it into mine
and just like that, she's gone.
Its not cold anymore, it's not really anything. It's not even dark; dark is a thing, and this is nothing. Time or no time, it doesn't matter. I wait in the nothing until she comes again.