As the clocks melt, as the ants crawl and as the elephant trudges along on stick legs, I spy myself peeping inside me. The heart is no longer black, weak or wicked. The heart awaits its rightful place usurped by the mind. Perhaps, Aristotle, the heart is the seat of reason and emotion. Or perhaps, Gloria was right in blaming the men. The mind, an impostor, a trickster. But, pray! could we abstract the illusion from the illusionist? Will.

Thought torn asunder as the trains scoot, refusing to wait. One for the grassy meadows, one for the hills, one for the sea and several through the grand milieu, into the possible futures. Ha-ha, how many of the several shall halt again? memories of the others inspiring regret, phew or disgust. Chance.

Malice and greed. Malice and greed. While I watch, I swallow myself. The I is scared for there is no light inside me, for there is no equal, nor is there magic. Each adding to the former – Fibonacci? Moving through pipes, into bags, I wish disappearance – perhaps, digestion. Hope.

Elbows on knees, faces in palms, clenched teeth. Neither herb nor spirit to soothe as masks are lost and posts are moved. Despair.