Yours etc.

29A The G----
S------
E15 4--
29.05.0-

Dear N----,

I'm listening to Arcade Fire, 'Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)' and it reminds me of D-- A------, that place you used to live with P----- & S---- and that night - some party - when everyone had finally slunk off to bed and it was just you & I and whatsherface? C----'s girlfriend? Who wouldn't end? Keeping me embroiled in some mindless afterhours talk? You didn't care for it (or her), I wanted you, you to the door - you stood there a moment, your eyes - and to bed and me left to endless ramble interspersed with dumb reflective laughter, me humouring her, tirelessly.

I felt that was my chance. I felt that was my chance and that ever after has been the letting go.

Even other instances of potential: I probably approached them with a doubtful mind - the seed had been planted. For that - not some - reason I failed you. And I'm so like a kid around you, wanting you to let your guard down and nurse me - and you know what that means: save me.

Yours etc.

The Last Dash of the Summer Wasp

They await their fate. Summer’s passing leaves only death now. That cocoon of industry, kamikazely protected, vacated as other, less airborne spindling creatures attach their labour in spiralling formations. Yet all have not yet subscribed to that number: Roaming not in lushous colours, this chill that nips whilst striking discord in that productive melody, it still beats on, unsure as to what progression this change was meant to merge.

Only death waits them now. While still brazenly coloured, attuned to what once was the season’s colours, now those bold stripes mean only passing irritation: Already that fight has being fought and, like forgotten soldiers stationed disjointedly in lonely outposts of an already-fallen empire, these drones know not the impossibility of that which they seek – they must die the death appointed them, annilation and nothing less.

And still that date eludes them. Those shrugs and disinterested swipes their buzz is met with, accumulates their sense that all is not right. Their dwindling population sparks unsettling indications: That sought nectar, the sustenance of their servitude, is not to be found; that once unisoned vibration beat with such vigour, is no longer met with rhyming responding calls. Alone now are these redundant vectors. Death only awaits them now.