There was an eclipse as I stood outside work pretending to water some dead flowers. Cloudy skies and people taking photographs on their phones. A rock of ages casting its shadow on me knowing the moment was already a memory. It was as if I were looking back from a time I had no knowledge of. Sensing that everything had already happened, I gazed up at the strange celestial dance and felt a chill run down the length of my spine. The last time it had happened had been fifteen years earlier. A cool summers day in the same town. The birds had been singing and the day turned cold for what now feels like an eternity. Time. It stretches like the mind. Imagination and the cosmos, sweet like wine and black stockings. Women. The way they shape the stars. The way they slither through my veins always infecting and caressing the nature of my illness. Madness, it sings of a future unknown yet fast unravelling ahead of me. Islands of lost yesterday’s, streaming down your lonesome face. In every tear, the salty waters of home. The history of wanting to cling but there being nothing to cling to. Tiny crystals on my fingers as I try to pick out three splinters from the back of my hand. Recollections of old journeys lingering somewhere on the outskirts of my consciousness. Dark roads with lights that never seemed to be working. A home without love. Faded like stains, it was a place where we let it all slip away through fear of facing our maker. My mind wanders from subject to subject. It never settles until sleep comes calling. I never remember my dreams anymore. They never seem to tickle me the way they used to. A cigarette hangs like a victim. It smokes out the room as silence pours in through the open window. Letters remain unwritten. Stories locked deep inside. Dust and old guitars buried beneath autumn desire. In the local park, we made plans before the great fall. Then years later I made a man of myself while seven sheets to the wind. Different versions of myself. Different women. We stay the same yet change without realising. People die like flies. They disappear. The taste of antiquity so hard to deny, my bones grow cold as insects fly around the light bulb above my head. Always circling like anxious thoughts, they remind me without fail that I’m falling out of sync with where I need to be.