melancholia vs echolalia, with accordion

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I do not believe in angels.


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If I did, they would be broken and wounded and ineffectual.



Like us, I guess.



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Only, you know, invisible except on certain occasions. Plus, flying, ascending to heaven, descents into hell, various other realms.




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All around me people are closing in around themselves, like time-lapse photography of a flower blooming in reverse. Blood is in the air. The sun goes down without a struggle and night takes over, a little more each day. It's colder, too, and I don't just mean the weather.

I am an intolerant being. I think poorly of most of humankind. I can't figure out if I hate everyone in general, and there are a few specific folks I can tolerate, or if it is the other way round. That's a lie.


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I am blessed beyond reason. I am greedy.


But not ashamed of it.


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This year is almost done with. I hope you did some good with it. Here comes another one right after it. You can do it this coming year, if you didn't yet.

It could happen.



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What sweetness there is yet left. What undiscovered countries. Grief and loss and dissolution. Singing and madness and lovemaking sweet and desperate. Yet more to lose, yet more to learn to do without.


And new gifts each day. Though they be but small.


We save them up. We pick up what the angels drop before us. As if they exist after all.




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