On an ancient sundial in Ibiza: Ultima mvltis.
The last day for many.
Our town was glass domes in a row. Crates and conveyor belts replaced cars and roads. Every horizon was high density sprawl.
Jillison was the only one left who still paid any attention to me. She was a shortage of a girl. Raw wire shadow, skin off white, washed her hands twenty to thirty times a day.
It was hard to tell what was real, what was projection. There was little way to make any of it last. We were losing track. Jillison kept checking dirt lines on the window. We did our best to make sense of the background noise.
We lost light every day, atmosphere was worthless as toilet paper. Might as well have been no windows. There was a long way to go, or maybe not, I didn’t actually know. We had a hole in our bucket, dear darling, a hole.
The sun came out in halves or less, rarely for long. Eclipses came in the shape of rectangles or squares. We helped each other, the two of us there.
We kept ourselves on steady behavior authoring programs. Clouds were gray and on repeat. Jillison held a script against screen molds and I spread the movable press.
Most people, if they could, were still playing pretend.
Anxiety became another bill we received daily. Scattered randomness became static disappointment: Sky was still expensive. Trees were expensive. Oxygen was expensive.
My mental health was mostly just arranging voids in a row. Is trauma walled or unguarded? Does it matter?
You can’t defeat yourself into a success. The hole only gets deeper, only goes way.