THE WITCHING HOUR
There is heaven in sitting on the balcony at 1:03am and eating cheap chinese food. There is such beauty to be found woven into casual mundanity that I am able to see the image of god reflected in the faces of passersby beneath. Able to hear the song of heaven slurred from the mouths of drunkards that slink through the night, inconsequential lives brandished by moonshine so that right now, in this moment, they are brilliant and brimming, hearts spilling over, past their teeth - onto the curb. Sitting in my underwear, scandalized in that way that a tree falls alone, contentedly typing on modern day papyrus that makes a poet out of the ignoble, gives pixelated eternity in the same way that the crystalized remains of the common-folk become heralded in The Getty, I find that beauty that men fight wars over, that bellow the burning hearts of existentialistic wanderers. I feel it like webbing between my fingers and fancy clasping my hands together and caging it like a bird so that it might sing for me always. But from this folly I withhold, knowing that chained salvation ages into a false god. That any mellifluous nectar that life has to offer would turn to sand in my mouth. This calm runs free like wild horses, is non-newtonian, is inexplicably cruel and generous in the way it tempts its own demise.
molrat, 20, a burrow ✯ IG: @m0irat
“N/A.”