cistern raze in the narrowness of night, with my head hidden under unwashed blankets and only the ghost of a thought to keep my brain from breaking, i'm always sure i'm hearing a plane about to tear the house in two or some other merciless machine murdering whatever silence might have stood in its stead, even when there's nothing on the other side of these underweight walls to worry me with its wheezing. the harder i lean into what i once mistook for safety, the more exposed i feel. there is no calm in the eye of a hurricane. just the sense of being seen while stewing in the cistern of a storm without end. 260112 ... ancasa.reyn I read the first twenty-five words of this with the voice of Procol Harum's Gary Brooker in my head, à la "In Held 'Twas In I". 260114 what's it to you? who go blather from