the less likely I am to listen.

being on the outside
but friends with insiders
holding the instrument
but unable to play

The horsehair has frayed; the sword is falling,
and after 55,000 words describing it, I've forgotten
how to make it cut.

Art imitates life, and as the climax approaches, it's interesting to contemplate the life of the creator of this art.

The thin progression of time doesn't bother me much; it seems slow enough to allow me my selfish wallowing on endings and rapid enough to prevent boredom. And while there's the fear that it's accelerating, that I will find it harder to hang on as the ride goes forth, what's worst is found in my abstractions of the past. Pain becomes a knowledge of pain, love a knowledge of love, and one day soon the tears I saw welling in your eyes that you forced yourself to restrain will become nothing more than a memory of a heart-tug; the swelling and overflowing won't be there even as I desperately try to make myself remember.

I'll be able to talk about it: recall the periphery of the words, the clothes we wore, the clever body language. But the time is rapidly approaching (and far too soon) when I will think back to that moment and be unable to see your face or feel your pain.

I know what you'd say - it's precisely what I should allow. The joy flies and we kiss it; let it rejoin the river. You will drink from it again, soon.