holy by happenstance

Scything

The difficult made holy by happenstance. She was delirious, but understood she’d make the first cut soon—minutes, perhaps seconds. She recoiled imagining the pain.

The rain in Maine stayed mainly in her brain. She moved—graceless—in a fog.

The reaper was scything at her heels. She resolved to move while she was able.

“His lips are brought down and his head again, yes, the gulls were there. They never miss an evening. They are grey slush in the spewing meatus of the sewer … It is the placenta of the departed, the red rigor of post-partum.”

— Samuel Beckett / Dream of Fair to Middling Women

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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