Tales of drear.

The leaves are rotting on the ground.

A mountain of firewood blocks the street.

A group of sepia men carry logs into a house.




Time itself, it appears, has slipped backwards.

Voices are muffled, pitch is lowered, meaning is mangled.

These are tales of drear.

I feel each word like a step in a bog.

I am, wading, arms flailing, getting nowhere.

I sink deeper.

The dog is barking at imaginary intruders.



What the hell are these bloody photos?

The phone is taking them without my knowledge.

They become my memory.




I slept badly, my mind polluted by Donald fucking Trump.

Gonad Skunk: Make America Hate Again

Facts became a wearisome wordplay at two in the morning.

Fact
Fuck.
Fake
Facile.
Facetious.
Flunky.
Fraction
Fact
Faction
Fart.

And so on.

Ad infinitum.

Then I slept.