The Known Chapels are Exploded

Whatever it is, it's imminent. Even you, who wouldn't know love if it undid your jeans on Main Street, are caught up in preparation. As the day lengthens and the isolation intensifies, the writing acquires a specific momentum. Not healing exactly but a sense of possibility, however dim, begins to glisten. I knew a man once who loved prisms because he convinced himself that pretty things which don't last are an antidote to dying. There are no more easy harmonies and all the known chapels are exploded. I was born in January but I don't hate January. My mother was unconscious when I was born, my father off driving in a snow storm. The unattended invite many gods and goddesses, and I am one. Now let there be light. Now let there be dark? Well, let us eat anyway. Our autonomy depends on countless deaths. I am one.