I need that five minutes, in the cold arms of her sainted ghost, to drink in the dark alone, to work through the greatest awful. to bury my fists in the ground and wish upon all that is dust that I should not be buried in grief, that I do not float away, that I can one day know it all again. that I can forgive the monsters, that I should not hunt and kill Jesus, all the angels and god himself. this is the life I have left. here, I am the dark alone. I am the greatest awful. the minutes tick slow, like a natural disaster: they throb and rumble.  and I can only watch as the known world dissolves. I can not run. I can not look away.

it was so great, once: reduced to sights. sounds. dust.