Four Days

The first day starts at dawn. Well, just before dawn, as soon as the purple curtain surrenders its battle, as the light illuminates the paste of the ceiling.

What’s with us, that we see beginnings in the dead of night, in the dark of the year, in the void of space?

The first day is all about work, creativity, productivity. It ends around three, at the height of the heat.

Awake again at 4:30. Refreshed. Home. Family. The second day includes dinner, chores, someone real or pixelated telling a story. The second day is engagement.

We lie in a bed welcoming the third. This day is all sleep; lucid, creative, dreaming. A book to seed our journey. The third day is unconscious but aware, a form of surrender to madness, to the artist, to the engineer, to that which must be processed.

The fourth day starts at three, in the coldness of the morning. No one else is awake, nothing to work on. Breath at this hour has a roundness to it. It is warm and ovoid, like cupped hands, the shape of water molecules, the teabag, the mug, the amorphous cloud of steam.

Every element was born inside a star, heat and pressure enough to force attraction and love. Although we have cooled to this set form I can remember wanting you with such ferocity I did not see anything except you, brighter than the surrounding light.

The fourth day reminds me of this, of our life.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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