Sleep dampened the autumn, culled the cutting mists, the calling days. No body of a season, but it fled, and I am left with these streets that no-one can be bothered to map. afternoons whose sunlight ultimately has no meaning and nightfall that sadly only resembles what they should be.
Even going back into the heart of the first autumns unsettles me. This unworkable timetable spreads across the country, across the years, hiding waiting rooms and what I thought might slowly be following me. There's a ghost of a lost summer here too, something sad and quiet and doesn't belong to me.
Twilight gathers and I take a sip of tea, think about that last true investigation thirty years ago, listen to an album (What Starts Ends by Rubicon) I first heard twenty years ago, and think about a word I first said ten years ago whose resonance is infinite, but the meaning I've never been able to divine.
I could say I would walk these streets forever, but these streets are not here, and I am not walking them, and begin to suspect their curves and shifts and paths lie beyond the point of any cartographer of cryptographers pen.
