Like fading knives driven deep into the sun, this roaring veil of dark, these hands clasped against a descent of spirits. These desolate fire roads and the scratched and scattered mirrors of a thousand plane crashes, of a thousand cars piled atop the crumbling overpass. This corrosive acid lapping the sullen shores in tepid half-life. Hexes and omens. Wilderness incantations. 

The X drawn starkly through the page. The black blindfold. Let the hours dissolve and fray. These are the final waking dreams, the last of the streetlights flickering and failing now. This is the bourgeoning and the denouement.