It sits there, laying dead on clouds and the burgeoning green of spring branches, the slow, languid yellows, the sepia of the coming dark. So it is, as the movement of breath, the motions of eyes over steaming cups, the imperceptible shift from speed to cessation, from rain to darkening ground.
Sometimes it is a rusted coffee tin in an overgrown garden, diffusing all wrong. The wind picks up in its stead.
The notebook is slowly filling with confused phrases in an unsteady hand. The red notebook fills with blue ink. As pages turn faster, languages fall to pieces, garbled lines slowly reduced to nothing.
Water drips in the sterile white. The light will sometimes stall. The reflection in the mirror becomes unfamiliar, as the noises outside begin to repeat.