Daybreak/Dayclose

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The dark, starless sky is going out like a travelling wave; the bed, bare as mine, on which lie raspy, white hot planets and other bodies, takes away all the fanciful astrological notions proper to a medieval academic. I slink down along the headboard on my spine and then feeling no sleep right myself back up. How wakefulness keeps me up and useless in my convolutions is a mystery ancient as time. Every cell, troubled by overthinking and irregularity, rages against me; I know for sure I won’t be living long, but what a long jump would that be if death were not ground enough. (crack of dawn)

Waiting in line to do the routine swab test, I found a familiar cart selling sugar-glazed hawberries (neatly threaded on wooden skewers) and it made me happy. Handmade food gives me not only comfort but hope that is not crushed by mass brutalisation, and a sturdiness that gains by the weight it bears, and a loveliness all the more prettier against dark back cloth. (late evening)



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