An Emptiness of Hours

We wander down paths of collective nouns, affixing labels to forms and formless alike. Without these specific, burdened words, we are alone in our own skulls. The shapes between us blur until we are uncertain, shaky and shaken. Think through this filter; synaesthesia of the vicarious. Translate, translate, but never know what this means. We lose referents to dominant chaos. We crave the tangible to prove the ethereal, and mistrust skin or smiles or sibilants . A sense of touch divorced from the experience of texture. We become the compartments we learn to apply to experience. When all we ever wanted was to be a lexicon of our own invention.