After a black swoop

After a black swoop through a wet slip of days, of unmarked time, the multiplied edges of walls and shadows and lines against the imperturbable sky creep toward their twins. Like sleeplessness and television hypnosis, the real edge won’t appear until those two questionable figments unite and you can reach out to trace a corner in its straightness and coolness. You try to ascertain which places those two manifestations are existing in, right at the moment you take them in. If one is in the haze of your sickness as it tapers, the other is waiting on the fringe of consciousness and clarity, but it is not more real, that tangible world of normalcy, because it is always out ahead and unattainable, like a man matching your paces. You only see his back, forever. You see things in a different way through illness. They become pure and separate from you, not stage sets enabling you to move through time, but existing in each second with you, both alone, both with questions for the other.
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