power_failure raze three times the filthy white pedestal fan that sings me to sleep each night died. three times the scarlet numbers i turn to when i need to know how far the morning still has to travel to reach me went dark. the silence was too loud to dream in. the night too bright to make me blind. the wind a barbed recitation of half-forgotten prayers moving through the thin wires that hang above my head, carrying heat and light and the steady pulse of time. what would kill me if i touched it helps to keep me alive, just as long as i can cover up the sound it makes with my own frail music, breathing empty threats thick with dirt into the tired guts of twilight. 220218 what's it to you? who go blather from