In screeching seagull song sounds out senescent afternoon.
“The cosmos, then, was chaos…”
A finely crafted lot of letters nailed into its door, the room, so full in retrospect, slept – spacious; silent.
The walls of mud-made brick that bind and shape the space they share start to compress – contracting in upon themselves; sharp shuddering.
Two paths curve t’ward an empty cradle.
Now riddle it with chaos: muddied fury lit by mob-borne flame.
“Change is the only thing. It’s the only thing there is.”
The seagulls, too: they screech in semi-reliably recorded history.