out_of_time raze she stands behind the piecemeal oak prison of her desk and pitches an elegy into indifferent air. something she's memorized so there'll be no need to send her eyes anywhere they wouldn't want to haunt for more than a few minutes or miles. you grab your scarf by the scruff of the neck and rock it like a child chasing_sleep. the fringe that falls and oscillates is the tongue of a longcase clock. it speaks only when spoken to and tells hard truths in time's stead. she loses her place in the poem she thought she knew so well. mocks the movement of your brass hands. you watch the crimson cloth fall around your feet and wait to be unwound. 260203 what's it to you? who go blather from