Stretching out before is the lip of the serif
Stretching out before is the lip of the serif to scoop the heft from the day, leave it lighter. (We are somehow buoyed up by the memory of the chemicals the memory induces.) The king’s got no regency in his brow but the jeweled orb of his scepter is caked with blood and there’s shit strewn about, hair follicles anchoring tufts of someone’s grey hair to the marble floor. It’s a mess. (In between the letters gulfs a stretch of pure white expectation only a little mitigated by the dog-eared corners, some shine from a hand’s heel rubbing the paper to a new caliper.) Flecks of unformed punctuation wait for some order to clump to. Above the dais above the throne granite arches frame the scene from all the other possible moments I can remember and we sit and watch the stained glass reposition its aspect between the sun and us. Time the sculptor of shadow plays. Bust out the flask, uncork ourselves more than anything. Christmas regrets. Stet in the margin. First fucks. Déjà-vu fodder. Crease the sections back into the page we make the day out of. (You could test your voice in the empty hall, but there was once a Tabriz carpet some looter flew away on, and the room’s all fucked up now with standing echoes and reflections.) Bearing a new standard that, when you wave it, looks more like you’re surrendering to a fleet of cabs than ransacking, than conquesting. (But at least we know – because we hold the page in such delicate, nubile fingers – the violence of the press, the conviction of the lead, the finality of ink as it dries indented forever into the floor.) We decided to leave the “silence” sign unmolested where it’s screwed into the wall, which probably pissed off the stonemason.