A Long Walk on a Short Pier

There's a curious sound, a slight something that goes on, incessant, unyielding, a sound that on the surface seems so tame, so harmless, so meaningless; but you have not been within its spell. No, you have not suffered the misfortune of being held in its thrall, beyond your desire to do so, for countless agonizing hours. This madness, this harbinger of blunt and open emptiness that is forever laughing at you, these slight fragments of utter lunacy, these are yours and you have inherited their embrace.

It's not within your options to explore and out, there are no doors leading anywhere at all. The entry has been sealed, taped, nailed, painted over, welded, magically made to disappear, and now there is only you.

Okay, I'm not making any sense. I shouldn't have to, these are nonsensical times. Know only that in this secret temple of opaque horror I sit at the center of a storm, forever tightening in on itself, and that it is only a matter of time before the center collapses and there is simply nothing left.

Yeah. Why not?

Times have changed, there is a new tender, the townsfolk speak a new language, and you have received no invitation. This means that without a place at the table, without a solid reason to be here things are destined to decay into something unappealing. It can't be helped. There is a map, just give it a glance. You don't have to be a fucking cartographer any more. This map reads itself.

You've seen enough films to know what it means when the birds begin to circle. You've seen the spools of heavy wire, partially unwound, leading into the earth to do unspeakable things to our dignity. You've adopted the disciplines of the masters, learned the ancient tongues, shouldered the ways of those trusted with the keys to the castle. Unfortunately, this castle is in ruins. It's in ruins, covered with cheap graffiti and reeking of stale piss. That's a pretty picture.

You have taken your turn to stand watch over the aged relic, observed the translucent parchment-like skin, regarded the shallow breaths with recoil. You have made the mistake of peeling away the dried husk thereby exposing the pulpy truth that seethes below. You have sensed the infinitesimal changes in the breeze that signaled the sea change across continents. It is not a skill, it is a curse, and it is a cross.

You have the tiny, tiny umbrella, and the button-hole carnation.

You dance on sawdust, get drunk on cheap booze around a pathetic fire, and redesign yourself as a patron to a tradition of deception.

These very nights see snug little faces, tucked away and fully captivated by your sinister allure. It is so very wet and so very cold. You can smell the ocean in the air. Your fingertips go numb. The monkey's head put away for the night.

People leave offerings at your feet. Cakes. Wines. Beautiful pictures. Words. Your gift to them is the gift of tomorrow. The gift of dishonesty. None greater, people. None greater.

This dismay, it comes across without hesitation, as if it could not be possible for you to enjoy a smile, to sample the sublime, stop the clock, silence the noise, if only for a fraction of a moment.

Well, okay, maybe there is a shred of truth in it.

Tap, tap, tap...

Here's where we are in no order, without exposition, as a litany of indulgences and inadequacies that in total are nowhere close to covering anything of value:

P.S. - I won't tell you anything.

…

On second thought.