Transience of Beauty

She realized, once in the southern city a few days, she could be mindful of enjoying a moment or two—as fleeting as they were—before the drowned world.

On occasion she experienced something of the transience of beauty—or she amended, the beauty of transience. And in this piecemeal manner she orchestrated a less fitful hour or two.

But upon mindlessly enjoying the transience of beauty (or the beauty of transience) she’d be shocked out of her reverie.

And she continued on in this way on this day—the acculturated middle day of the week (just who decided this was midweek? just who decided to start the week on the day it started?) in this manner she spiraled off in another ruminative coil toward the shapes without form and darkness without substance.

Then she heard a disembodied voice ask: anhedonia, anyone?

“How is it possible to still be startled /
As I am by the oblong silhouette of the coiling
Index finger of a pending death.”

— Lucie Brock-Broido / “Leaflet on Wooing”