Every thing is a mirror for mortality
The tick of the clock is obvious though it hides gears wearing each moment rounding their teeth like a rodent itching a plank of wood
Think about the grease pasted over the turning mouths
In the back of the mind a story about how oil is the remains of dinosaurs that was pressed like apples until the cloudy mists collected in cloudy jugs
The clouds settle themselves on the horizon like vinegar under the oil blueness of sky
A news report of a bird wing preserved in amber and then the image of a bird losing its wing in the thickness of tree sap the image of it chewing its own limb off
We always end up talking about James Franco cutting off his own arm in that one movie
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| Not 127 Hours |
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