there was not much left. all of the ink on the pages of every letter he ever wrote was gone. or just separated and turned abstract in that flash flood. though neither of them had anticipated a flood on the fifth floor. so. there it is/was/will be.
hanging paper out to dry. on the makeshift clothing line. while the ocean knocks at the windows. and the fire escape. turned to rust. with fish ghosts and snail skeletons. walls sweat salt. broken glass grew out of the floor. and you could hear the room breath.
it smelled like burnt out matches. but really. they were just waiting to drown.

apathy laced with intense fear. of past. of future.
presently you stumble around the 300 square foot rabbit hole you filled with too many old books, porcelain cats, and maps to places that no longer exist.
rib cages stab organs. 3-4 pain killer capsules.
dreams of biting rocks until teeth splinter up into your mouth. 16 oz. of coffee.
crawling/scratching under your skin and inside your entire body. 1.5 bottles of whiskey while sitting in a bathtub full of india ink tainted water.
everything that happens is because of you. everything is fact.

sitting in the dining car on a transcontinental train to berlin.
using butter knifes to open long lost letters.
you'll always be my captain
he wrote while sitting by the southern ocean, listening to the sound of sharks laughing and crabs paying the fiddle.
i never asked to be captain. she replied. then crossed it out.
i know.
she wrote while stepping out onto the cobblestone and into the northern air.
there is natural light. and. there is artificial light.

indeterminacy and chance operations.
conducted in a command center 430 feet above the ground built to withstand winds of up to 235 miles per hour.
or.
conducted in the mind. or.
through sight and sound. the smell of the pavement and/or pressure in the air.
or. just chance. but.
the one thing that endures all. hidden in a suitcase. or a jar under the sink. or half burnt in freak matchstick accident.
would never. will never. should never. be left up to the weather.

the sky will open up. and drench you. and your skin. and your hair. and every piece of clothing you have.
until your eyes are leaking black oil. and bones are outlined in fabric.
and skin burns due to a high percentage of acid in the clouds.
too much electricity. not yet enough voltage.
leaving the wires and the outlets out to dry. the hand written letters on the clothing line. the kittens in the washing machine. and yourself under the heat lamp.
resulting in bloodshot eyes. bleached skeletons. the smell of burning hair.
all set to the soundtrack of wireless buzzing and static electricity and short circuitry.

really, what else is there.

watch the top of the world burn. or maybe. just the solitary plate of fire 5 stories above the moderately damp ground.
3/4 of a syringe of concentrated caffeine. 48 ounces of novocaine. 1/2 liter of sharp words.
here. you shed your golden skin. and lay crumbed on the ground around the intoxicating shreds of what you once were. fumes of the past making you forget the present.
then. between dream conversations and electronic letters. you grow new skin.
now. you are a nice shade of pewter.