good night, ragged beauties

across the cliffs we clamber and in clambering we cross the cliffs, cold and without feeling.  as cars upon tracks, we roll silently but with the clickety clack.  we sniff out cultures worn out or worn off the rails and behind casual pits of rage or resignation, we are more and more lost amid the darkness. 

but it is through the darkness we are able to see rightly and it is with only a single flame do we go rocking.  back and forth from the engine’s face hid amongst canyons of bitter ales and formerly scaled stock of powder kegs, we seem only to devise ways to go on exploding and only with explosives do we ever wish upon the rails themselves.  for to be a safety net for ourselves; for to be rickety climbers of a pattern of deep degradation; for to be nothing which goes past another because we cannot be passed. 

we cannot.  we can.

we can go forward or backward and that is all.  we cannot turn, we cannot.  there is only the coupled way of knowing where or where to; where not or where. 

and just because we haven’t any wheels does not mean we cannot be driven. we are and we are.  or simply, are not.  until the rails themselves go laced upon the windows, we will be sliding forever and ever. 

and so we do.  and it is a sad state of affairs that we can’t be not.

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