History.October 10, 2008 at 9:32 pm | Posted in writing | 20 Comments
Tags: Hiroshima, writing
The last chord subsides and the band begins to pack their instruments away. He shuffles across the empty dance floor into his office and slumps into his chair. Time is not linear, it begins again in each new moment. Grand cycles across eons mere extensions of rhythms as simple as the one two of the human heart. He pours the last of the whiskey into a glass and remembers. Noone thinks in sentences dry and crackly like dead twigs she had said, thought is fluid and grows like seasons like orchestras made of light. He gets up and looks out the grimy window. Won’t be long now. No gunfire tonight, no rumblings of tanks in the distance. Just the red glow of the front line on the horizon which silhouettes a single plane approaching. Time is not linear she had said and kissed him goodbye each moment eternal. The ground was frozen solid and he had to pay the old gravedigger double. He drained the last of the whiskey and the universe in an atom shattered in a chain reaction and the glass in the window cracked and time stopped.