rejectomorph | Abstracted

The air's chill has silenced most of the crickets. Only one near the house emits slow chirps intermittently, and one more at some distance faintly answers. The wasted moon will not rise until just before dawn. What little light the town provides reflects from pale, low clouds which share the sky with those more distant which remain dark, like great bruises. I see the silhouette of the mutilated tree. It makes the street seem more cramped, as always. Strange, how this opening of a space should make things smaller.

It is not late, by my standards, but I am tired. Still, I could not sleep, even though my tasks are completed. It would be good if I could, as I suspect that the tree removal crew will arrive early with their saws and their wood chipper and their big trucks to finish their job, and then there will be no sleeping for me. It's a bad day ahead, I fear. Despite the clouds, I doubt that rain will come.

Despite my inability to sleep, I can find no activity able to hold my attention. I tried reading a swarm of words that swirled over a page. I tried to watch the disconnected images flashing across the television screen. They made no more sense than the buzz of sound that accompanied them. Music did no more than make me wish for silence, and the Internet . . . well, it was the Internet. Cobbling words together merely brings me the realization of how weak they can be. I suppose I'll be reduced to using my old standby, remembrance, and wander through the past, touching with airy thoughts the conjured images of what once was real, and will never be again.