After a while I write on the stones left behind by the river that once flowed here. I gather my thoughts like leaves on a track in an autumn evening; trying not to step on the noisy notes and not distract the dead river which lays next to them.
The wind blows twirling and swirling the leaves in circles rotating around the axis of a void, and wind. It could have been a storm in a teacup, if Shakespeare was right, and this whole a one big play.
Enough said of creepy leaves; of winds that go round and round; and of the dead river. What concerns us is not the stones but the writings on them, rightly. Arcs of varied angles subtend from rock to rock. The hard earth is breached with lines parallel, which never meet, and intermingled circles which forms stars if looked upon with not much attention.
These stars shine and brighten up the night; not as a moon of joy, but as if one was to float on a piece of straw in a mighty river; hanging on to the last strings of hope.
But its all grey - the stones are grey. My autumn - the hallucination of my indulgence is of concrete. And why would it not be?
I fell in love with Medusa.
I gave her my leaves, my river; gave her an archaic smile, as the world turned to stone.
Now, I sit scratching my memories on these well rounded stones. My arcs are wide, and they reach from stone to stone like a bridge back to myself.
