This voice is ours

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It did not have to be this way. This maddening, quickening sense of urgency; a golden-rushed incident detailed, laid out to rest, among the leaves. A flickering finger stubbed out in the jaded mildew of the year just past. A crashing cymbal cascades off a distanced, challenging cliff. It is out of the traps and away down the distressed tattie driel; there is no mistaking that sweet thud of hope being filled to the brim with wine and roses (for all). It explodes; a thick shard of glass skims past you, lightly grazing your left cheek. The blood trickles out weaving edgy patterns as it flows; and you - on his table - know what comes next. You care not, however, for this. is. the. jet. age; a time when it isn't so much what you know as what you don't know. Nil (by mouth) for the one who threatens to jump. It is everywhere and incessant: this useless information that calls us to judge or be judged. A mocking cruelty covers this land; believing makes it easy. Or easier, you reflect with a tap to the head. All we need is a moment to stop the clocks and look up, remembering who we are and what we could be to each other. What is it we do best? Can you even remember? Let's engage, smile and hold on, my sweetness. Above all else, and with the best will in the world, do remember that sometimes I don't like your tone, either.
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DIIV - '(Drunn) pt ii' (2.47)
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