Indifference creeps in under familiar cloak, wrenching control from idle hands and slipping in through the cracks of grief and vulnerability.
Aye, for some time it did fear the pills and potions, resigning itself to lurk around blurry edges and linger in the shadowed corners, but it made its mark long ago.
It poisons the wells and farmland, scrapes the shine from polished metal, and enrobes even the most vibrant pigments in a dull, sooty sheet.
The weight has stalled momentum, sapped the strength from muscle and sinew, and polluted the mind's view of life beyond the horizon.
And as the hopeful, energetic loops and lines on the page inch further and further away, the sensation of stasis and static noise begins to pulse with the urgent, bubbling fear that — in a place where nothing speaks to the heart, where nothing attracts the eye or tantalizes the mind — there is not a hint of "home" left to ease aching bones.
