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Black days of bright crocuses rear their heads, slipping eel-like from fog. I stare at the sacred geometry of my bedroom ceiling, an Episcopal cathedral wrought from concrete and plaster. I suppose it’s fitting that flesh schematic of God’s form dwells in a facsimile of Their house. I say let there be light and I keep flipping the switch the wrong way, hollow clicks in the dark spidering over my prostrate body.
Sometimes I take a walk up to the hill and stare down into the waves, so distant and sheltered that the illusion of their individuality wavers, a great, gray, water-thing quivering below. Vastness almost sickens me, my stomach clenching and expanding with the insignificance of my voice and the insignificance of everyone else’s. Paper-wasps and juncos flit along the drop, all breeze and whistle and hooked digit.
And then there’s the slope, always crumbling away and full of bald roots and brambles and busted beer cans and atrophy and dirt. Almost the mirror-image of the slope behind the Episcopal cathedral, with its tilted walls of cement and its lurching step towards the canal. I go there, too, to perch on ruins and watch the water. To watch everything that the light fashions for me decay and dissolve and become one with its likenesses. As night falls, the water recreates the sinking sun and turns black.