Life is too fleet for onomatopoeia.
I am the wilderness lost in man.
The Earth swirls down through the ominous moons of preconsidered generations.
Yet not with all of me am I in love. Too much of my own quietness is with me.
Lingering is so very lonely when one lingers all alone.
The sun sank with a sob and darkness waded in from all horizons so that the sky contracted and there was no more light left in the world, when, at this very moment of annihilation, the moon, as though she had been waiting for her cue, sailed up the night.