The clock strikes twelve, again, and the drip goes by unnoticed, again, the tap-tap of the clock whispers secrets, Delicious secrets looping within the circling time.
The crowd roars! The echo of the night unfurls its petty forgotten skirts as the city rattles against the blackboard void, who becomes the eclipse that cannot weep.
I said, to the man on the subway, I said, "the thrill, the thrill of the chase." And he looked beyond me, he was already lost, lost in the mirror reflection of multi-colored pieces that ignite nowhere, really, just nowhere, he said. And he stepped away into shadows born anew with every breath, reflections coiling and recoiling as per the shadows' whims.
Looping back thoughts, cycles, and the sound Marginal hints, warming drops of inconsequential something, perhaps, maybe the same spill by my feet. Again. These echoes brighter every time. Brighter still. Cheap thrills linger like cigarette smoke on mostly unperturbed ocean breeze where the cast chips of waves know nothing of us or our forgetfulness.