Make still the hands of eyes, she says, and gives up spirit to her final beep. And isn't it time long gone for such brief beginnings? The roar can only touch your inner ear for so long, you know - sighs sidle away as quanta's quadrille calls for new partners, no longer trapped between above and below.
So the call button slips and petals fall beside. The claws of chaos they bedside bound to her every rise and falter cease their scratching for purpose, drawing the staff with straight lines stretched and marking an end to notes, no code for a coda.
Think of it as a caesura, if that makes you feel.
Brisk fields of white await the next sparrow to take wing, while these puffs of air and flashes of light limp home, beside themselves.
Original content on this page © 1998, Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
This document last updated August 14, 1998.