The paradox of happiness and grief. Place the books on the table, look up from the stacks. Lists. Always growing and changing; yet, constantly remaining still. And in the stillness, there are things that are fathomed. Phantoms. Dreaming and weaving, your hand waving, my voice swallowed. Come on in, the weather is always nice. Until it changes. Which it always does. But be still and listen. The dynamics of the warm sun as it, like clockwork, reddens your soul. Ready. Creep under the covers, but do not hide. Because it will find you. It will bury itself beneath your skin. It will scream in sync with the noises around you until it doesn’t. It is flat, or sharp. Square and round. But it is noticeable.
No, You cannot bury yourself. It will seek you.