14.12.10

I've spent these past few days burning paper and putting the ashes in little boxes. The pieces start as fairly solid but as I move them they powder down and fill the box with grey. I'm studying more solid pieces and you can still make out the lettering of some of the articles, the slightest amount of wind and they crumble. The powder makes my skin pale but it feels like talcum powder so I like the sensation of rubbing it on my skin. Who needs rouge when you have burnt ideas? You can taste the salt on your lips and hear the sound of waves crashing around. I'm not sure if we are up or down; there' s a safety to this blindness that we share. I want you to listen to me. I want you to listen to me. I want you to listen to me. I want you to listen to me. I want you to feel safe. There was a group of sailors once. They set out to find an oracle who would enlighten them in the truths of the ocean so that for all time they-*******I've been thinking about how this world will end. Whether it will burn or freeze, melt or shatter. I feel the call of the coal through my feet, it speaks of wicked deeds. There's a satisfying pop that comes from-****There's a melting point to diamonds and when they burn they boil and the vapours bring tears to the eyes of angels. There's a beauty to the ballet of smoke  especially when viewing it's shadow and the way it shimmers and dissipates. The battle lines are drawn and this is a fight with no referee. Ashes are spread on crags and summer plants die in the autumn. The worlds main task becomes sleeping. There's a sickness in those eyes I am staring into; a sadness the world knows well but rarely speaks of. Behind the goggles and the plexi-glass shields they watch the glass splinter and fall. I'm trying to get out but the dirt fills my mouth and eyes and turns the birdsong into a muffled percussion.