I think this is how it's supposed to start.
More from the dog world, mornings aren't always like that, but there are some strange things in the sky these days, everyone has a guess as to how things turn out, but no one really knows, and all the dogs are teaching lately is that once you have the traces of a scent, you just follow.
That's the best time, because no one has to second-guess themselves any more.
The undefined signs in the road might not point to anything more than letting you know that this is still road, that you haven't left the road. Those things you used to need to keep certain, you just don't need to be certain any more. Some of these things have been going on for a very long time, and it gets a little bit easier when they start to fade into the background, the raw material of this skin that you are living in.
Every thing starts when the morning is spent in the graveyard, the ones who wake up in the graveyard are the luckiest ones, because they get to know the roots.
This is a place of strange representations.
It's a first day.
The one where the heat opened up like a clam when the sun rose, and all of the things of the desert smell like themselves, a green smell that only we know, it's somewhere in between healing and dying, and it's hard to know which, especially this time of year, when the floor begins to look like the sea that it is and used to be.
It starts in the graveyard. This dream, this cycle, it starts in the graveyard. He's asleep on his back, and there are songs blowing through his head from the families visiting their dead, first thing in the morning, because when the moon and the sun dance like that, the next day is always the one where wishes get heard (even if they don't get answered).
He wakes up on his back in the graveyard, with a hundred desires melting out of his skin, and none of them can be answered from here, but they can be heard.
Something about the way the wind moves across our faces, something about the idea of no relief in sight, and something about the way everyone starts to talk about water. It's a strange dance.
This is the place where we start to look for mirrors, something to give ourselves back to ourselves again, because the sun is taking everything else away.
Some kind of strange grace when he wakes up, where he wakes up the mirrors are all covered, and the answers are still too far beneath the ground to make any kind of sense. And the signs are starting to repeat, this is the path, this is the map, and this is what will happen if you keep walking. But if they go on for too long, no one in their right mind would believe them any more.
And that might be enough, just enough. Things like faith get moved aside for survival, and the things that the stars set in motion come around whether we believe in them or not, and sometimes it's just better if we decide to stop waiting.
The things that will happen are already written on the veins, and the things that are left to chance might not make their way through another summer. And in the best circumstances, the ones that are the hardest to live through, the things that can never be lose their footing, and the things that are start to show themselves for the very first time.
"There is no difference," she says, wrapping her teeth around a bone of a cigarette, and her bones of legs around a bike, "there is no better."
He suspects that she might be profoundly wrong, maybe even as profoundly wrong as he is, because he lays these things on the railroad tracks and tells himself that these are things to leave behind, but he blows them to life with the vapors on his breath, forgetting on purpose that every spell has a result, and every desire buried in the ground has been buried with the secret of how to resurrect itself. Even, or maybe especially, the dogs know that. The dogs especially know that.
More from the dog world, mornings aren't always like that, but there are some strange things in the sky these days, everyone has a guess as to how things turn out, but no one really knows, and all the dogs are teaching lately is that once you have the traces of a scent, you just follow.
That's the best time, because no one has to second-guess themselves any more.
The undefined signs in the road might not point to anything more than letting you know that this is still road, that you haven't left the road. Those things you used to need to keep certain, you just don't need to be certain any more. Some of these things have been going on for a very long time, and it gets a little bit easier when they start to fade into the background, the raw material of this skin that you are living in.
Every thing starts when the morning is spent in the graveyard, the ones who wake up in the graveyard are the luckiest ones, because they get to know the roots.
This is a place of strange representations.
It's a first day.
The one where the heat opened up like a clam when the sun rose, and all of the things of the desert smell like themselves, a green smell that only we know, it's somewhere in between healing and dying, and it's hard to know which, especially this time of year, when the floor begins to look like the sea that it is and used to be.
It starts in the graveyard. This dream, this cycle, it starts in the graveyard. He's asleep on his back, and there are songs blowing through his head from the families visiting their dead, first thing in the morning, because when the moon and the sun dance like that, the next day is always the one where wishes get heard (even if they don't get answered).
He wakes up on his back in the graveyard, with a hundred desires melting out of his skin, and none of them can be answered from here, but they can be heard.
Something about the way the wind moves across our faces, something about the idea of no relief in sight, and something about the way everyone starts to talk about water. It's a strange dance.
This is the place where we start to look for mirrors, something to give ourselves back to ourselves again, because the sun is taking everything else away.
Some kind of strange grace when he wakes up, where he wakes up the mirrors are all covered, and the answers are still too far beneath the ground to make any kind of sense. And the signs are starting to repeat, this is the path, this is the map, and this is what will happen if you keep walking. But if they go on for too long, no one in their right mind would believe them any more.
And that might be enough, just enough. Things like faith get moved aside for survival, and the things that the stars set in motion come around whether we believe in them or not, and sometimes it's just better if we decide to stop waiting.
The things that will happen are already written on the veins, and the things that are left to chance might not make their way through another summer. And in the best circumstances, the ones that are the hardest to live through, the things that can never be lose their footing, and the things that are start to show themselves for the very first time.
"There is no difference," she says, wrapping her teeth around a bone of a cigarette, and her bones of legs around a bike, "there is no better."
He suspects that she might be profoundly wrong, maybe even as profoundly wrong as he is, because he lays these things on the railroad tracks and tells himself that these are things to leave behind, but he blows them to life with the vapors on his breath, forgetting on purpose that every spell has a result, and every desire buried in the ground has been buried with the secret of how to resurrect itself. Even, or maybe especially, the dogs know that. The dogs especially know that.
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