Dusk

It begins with a single inexplicable impulse. To prove your existance you clutch something cold, unrelenting. Although it scalds through your skin unpleasantly you keep your grip for reasons you cannot explain. The cold surges from your hand through your whole body bringing some part of you to life. At the same time you feel somewhat alive, aware, alert, reminded of the human body your soul is trapped inside.

…

I am neither a dysfunctional clock; a machine, nor a vacuum of thought. I am not a sparkling heel nor a product of the onslaught of society’s dregs. I am not, however, the shoemaker’s daughter nor the queen on its throne. In the overshadowed glen I am found profoundly, in the midst of polluted pollution.