waiting in the dark for sleep to find me
i hear them
i hear them talk
they talk not to me
they just talk
they seem so familiar
and yet i do not know them
they are all around me
and yet i do not see them
perhaps they are manifestations of a new and slow creeping madness
or perhaps they are but fore-echoes of dream
i do not know

i fear spending the rest my years sitting in a corner mumbling nonsense to myself
or drugged out of my mind — a drooling vacant zombie
for now, let them be dreams

Why do I care?

It's not like anything is real anyway.

I am not of this world.

This is not my place.

There have been times I have allowed myself to believe is my home.

But it never was and I've never truly been here.

The eyes I look through are distant from me.

They are windows to a place apart.

What purpose is there in visions lost?

I no longer see the light.

I wonder ever there ever actually was a light.

Or if it too is an illusion.

Through the winds, my queen calls for me.

Home.

Far away.

All forgotten still.

Echoes of what never was.

Last week, I heard several squirrels screaming their mating calls. This is definitely not their mating season, but this winter has been more spring in many ways and I think that has confused them. We had an actual taste of winter over the weekend, but the springlike weather has returned.

With the lack of any prolonged freeze this winter, there will likely be an imbalance this spring and summer. Inevitably, some species who's numbers are normally decimated during the winter will instead survive and multiply into a deluge. What will it be? Slugs? Frogs? Some sort of insect? Who knows? There may even be an boom echo when whatever feeds on the first wave themselves explode in population.

Personally, I'm hoping for salamanders.

i am of the mud and the barkdust
i wander with my walking stick
the wind whispers its secrets to those who would listen
tales of cities past and buried long ago
life to death and life again
our bones will make the soup of the future

look upon what cannot be and remember what never was
there is nothing here
only ghosts today, and echoes of silence to come

the creeping cold is underneath my skin
it is hurting me in the ripping places
the old year is setting, a new one dawning
where will I be?
will i be?
i watch and wait
the eternal game of if then
the horrors crawl forth from where they have lied hidden
long has it been
i have seen what was fly away in ribbons stripped from the fabric of the real
i live in the echo of the echo of what is gone from me
and the never has worked its way in
the differences show well that which does not change

it's neitherday
i want to walk in the neitherday air
i cannot
cops prowl the streets
evil transphobic peoples prowl the streets
generally unpleasant folk prowl the streets
it's the wrong night
i am inebriated
trapped inside
i want out
i hate this world
that makes me have to carry rocks
charlie holds them for me
sometimes cho or lily hold them
but lately charlie does
i don't like being afraid
i want to be like shahrazad
she was angry
she was fearless
she was awesome in every way
she knew everything had at least 7 levels of meaning
and she understood them all
she was and is who i want to be
i wonder if she is still alive
she probably doesn't like me anymore if she is
we had a bit of a falling out
it doesn't matter now
the tides of time have drifted so far
echoes of what might have been
if i were who i am
but i was not
and i will not be
and that is how it shall always be

I'm sitting in tears in a sea of tattered tinfoil. The playroom is dying. The bare wall staring hauntingly through the gashes. I feel this room still echoes our mindscape. The House of Clocks is dying. The playroom is dying. Dying. I cry. All this is ending. I feel I must soon, as well. The end of an era. A slow, painful death. Finally, a peace must come.

Tomorrow is another day. Another sunrise. We will sleep soon. We will awaken tomorrow. But, how many more mornings shall we wake? How many more can we? No longer can I bear these things. No longer can we fight the monsters. Those of us who are still meagerly fighting. Most of us have become twisted or meek or forgotten or lost. We are fading out. Like this place. Like the House of Clocks. Like the playroom. Our days are numbered.

I haven't been doing well lately. Seem to be in a perpetual state of panic. No real reason for panic. It's just there. I don't know what's wrong. Things used to be so good. Things used to fit together. Nothing quite makes sense anymore. I feel like a shadow. An echo. Lost. Blank. Hollow.

Visual echoes. Very odd effect.

Foreshadowing.

Visual echoes are like audio echoes. Light echoes in time not space from the point of view of the listener.

I wonder if the echoes are always there and I don't normally notice them or if the echoes are only a visual effect.

Time is a very strange concept. Very strange. Very interesting, but strange.

I like this.