denouement raze the trouble with an ending is it sends you scurrying back to the birthplace of a thing that's finished. you dance across the black teeth of an escalator that no longer knows how to move. you see everything with different eyes. sometimes you wonder why you walked around for so long inside a story you didn't get to write yourself. you wish you could have those years back. do something else with them. anything would be better than dying in someone else's rough draft. but dead is what you are, and the only effective form of time travel you've ever found is in your words. so save them for someone who wants them, or swallow them whole. 240113 what's it to you? who go blather from