My boiling blood told me they all fall, grow stark cold, then roll away, forgotten. Leaving behind a sweet serenade of stupor and the slow dwindling of memories. My boiling blood told me it would go cold turkey one day; simply stop warming my bones and flesh.Without warning. I know yet fear cold. I can’t escape cold, but then again, what can I escape?
At night, I hear flowing blood drumming in my ears, urging me to listen to the beating drum in my heart; a repetitive rhythm slowly coming to a stop.
In winter my blood boils hotter, to keep me safe. It’s effective. It cares for me, I think.
The landscape unravels like a fakir deploying his magical carpet and slowing floating toward the sky and off into the sunset. The clouds are pretty today. I didn’t quite like yesterday’s clouds. What will tomorrow’s be like? It’s, perhaps, not something people care for but, I do. I care, for clouds.
And, I care about where they all go when they fall. Those boiling fruits of blood.