Prosaic

I live by the once upon a time war, a Bethesda memory about beginnings and when they end. The floors are swept best with statements. Stencils fragment the sentences they outline. Love lifts more weight than is safe for a four letter word. Build tiles before ceiling a bathroom. Walls are paper if you don't push too hard. Yes, memory is a confusion of clocks, melting against the desert's preference: evaporation. Like air, I can be hungry for water, to the point of failing to do anything else -- yes, desire is an action. When done fully, wanting can be as productive as acting, and more active than doing. Word order is a fatal, anachronistic inevitability; sentence fluid washes over paragraph eyes with the short scene cuts that define contemporary film. Death and fathers. Fatherhood and birth. Too little for comfort. Too autumn to fall into. I'm an October baby, not ready for the cold, unable to stand the heat. Whose surrealist can say: this is better than reality. I don't know if I need a question mark to ask that more clearly, but here I am, in the once upon a time war, concerned with the finality of the starting point.