September Dispatch
Some months are more business than others. I have to write in a professional manner while my brain skitters wildly, demanding we draw and make things with our hands.
I ignore it as best I can.
The weather is a hot, wet mouth closing around my head. I try my best to see the future. It is cloudy.
The paths a filled with flies. The birds creep in the ivy. I try to divine the future. The doors remain closed.
The air is filled with unquiet violence. I try to write the future. The pencil breaks.
I am filled with rage and grief. I try to read the future. I do not understand the language.
We prepare for the coming dark season. We fill our house with monsters and lights. The future is a curved knife. Sharp and unexpected.
Gather these things in a little pouch. Examine them like treasures. I tried to keep the future close. It has broken it’s tether. I must go out into the night with a lantern and call for it until it comes home.