The night drags late,
dragged bodily through narrow streets
that twist with conversation.

Dogs bark at our heels maternally,
go home and sleep, the day will not work without you.

The day is not ours but
frighteningly, neither is the night.

I want to set the world on fire.
I want to burn this bloody edifice to the ground.
Only the bricks will remain,
stacked up in circles and lines that
direct our paths like veins.

They already know, these days and nights.
They already know our footsteps,
they have heard them before.
They feel our blood drying against them,
our rhythmic asses, our naked feet
padding against eternity, secret or frightful,
trying to escape the knowledge that we cannot escape.

We ramble on in dull procession,
our destination not known by us, but known,
and waiting.

How long before we reach the end?
When can we get off this pale horse?
How much eating can we do,
how much dancing and growing and
painting our souls against the wall in the same colors
every time.

How much piddling can we do before
we've wasted all our time and find ourselves
giving useless advice to those to come, telling:
escape the inescapable,
run, run, as fast as you can.

The nights drags on through narrow streets,
and I am dragged bodily by it.
My path is not known,
the world is my own, and
I have never seen such a beautiful waste of time.
When I am gone, I will leave it as razed as I leave myself.