Doom

“The President will speak”

The illusions that ceremony provides. Importance and dignity.

I see a red and black bird on a branch in late-winter. A temperate day that does not cut the nose. The bird sings upon a bare branch against a grey sky in Washington, D.C. Oh, how did we come to this? To have lived when I lived before everything threatened to become fake. To have truly lived in the early-to-mid-1990s when freedom and abundance were everywhere offered.

Cameras did not threaten every citizen on the street as they threaten, now, to do. Watching, interpreting, sending signals to threaten them to pay more money, more money, more money, for every unforgiveable infraction.

I see outside of the city, trees and tree branches bloom. Life is normal, here, not so important. You could live and not wish to die, but if you did, you would die in peace, the song of nature all around you, singing with you as you slipped through the crack in the world into the world behind and beyond it. Hello, God.

Let my tongue lay bare my soul; my voice send its vibrations to God. Here in this book of hours, this day I live and move within.