All night I dreamed about dying. Every time—I was shot once, bleeding out; another time, I had some kind of wasting illness—I woke up instead of never opening my eyes again, but whenever I fell back into the dream, there was a different death to go through. Some of the circumstances, waterspouts, unmoored islands, shell-like crusts of uninhabited buildings in the middle of cities where I've lived, might have made intriguing story material if I hadn't been distracted by the endless iterations of mortality, none of them opera-clean. Today fails auspices.
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Active Entries
- 1: Be my hand on the oar to row to eternity
- 2: Now I'm walking round the city just waiting to come to
- 3: You know this city like the back of your hand, but deep roots are holding me down
- 4: Here we are in the summer rain again
- 5: You're on, music master
- 6: To cormorant to samphire to plover
- 7: I'm the left hand ticking on the timeless clock
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