I’m stuck in a void, and all that’s keeping it tolerable are those of you in here with me.
The last eight years have gone by like eight minutes.
Eight minutes in an oven.
Eight minutes in shark-infested waters.
Eight minutes in the metaphor of our own making.
Next time the minute hand moves, I will know whether the temperature is going up, whether the sharks have lost interest, or whether the other thing that means something else has happened.
Until then I’m going to sleep and dream of better days, and when I wake I shall know whether those dreams were portents or memories.
lastgreypoet 