muse 7

RoM - The Past is Practice 

Excitingly new hearkens to the past. Three score and ten and overnight; here we may be. This brings up the cycles of the cosmosium. Confound it; I am aware it is impossible to move petrified legs. I feel the warmth of an intense light, the voices in the rotation of returning and retreat. Sometimes whispering amongst themselves. Sometimes lifting sentences as inquiring. I could not quite make out to answer, and do not need to, as they seem to answer for me in a condoling tone.

I enjoy the silences as it means we are all listening for who will say something next. More voices fill in the pauses until the party became an ambush. Wood paneling and wainscoting everywhere, spit flying. I image another rendezvous. Where did you learn to fly? Well that assumes a lot. Bluesy with a taste of twang, ready to get reckless?

A dear friend is smashed but alive. He rocks back and forth in an invisible cradle, a bottle neck loosely hooked through a ring finger. The bottle always slips first.

Sawdust on the floor soaks up the weather. One hundred year old grime on the walls fuzz up the air at McSworley’s. College buddies, now dressed in business suits, meet at the crowded circular tables. After a few too many pints they throw arms around each shoulder and rise swaggering to their feet singing the alma mater. Once ending, now quiet, they look at each other knowingly and sink back into their seats as one shouts, another round! for the glass littered table. This was the first year men wore Gray Flannel. That fragrance and sweat fills the room.

I instinctively look for hides, and escape routes. But instead of escape…