The red line from the spinning laser indicates level throughout the room, throughout the whole house. It is a benchmark to pull measurements from, it is the point where reckless anger finally collapses into despair. The Achilles cycle. Lay down hungry, lay down with the thought that tomorrow will be better than today. Lay down with the broken promise that said "I will be there. I will take care of things." An aggregate of blackness, grief knuckling into grief that stretches back to childhood.
Two high concrete retaining walls lining Quioccasin at Gaskins form a blazing narrow channel there. Achilles walking through it. Achilles pierced with many arrows but cannot die. Rabbits racing tattooed across his abdomen. Embraced, goes nova, forms a new constellation. Embrace him.
Hector, having killed Patroclos, took the armor of Achilles from his body and put it on. Hector's son finding him this way in their courtyard burst into tears believing the monster had killed his father and come home.
Letting Go is a simple chord progression that cycles for days. It ramps up, it declines, wears a groove in the thin layer of narrative that circles your mind. It is hot blood that must finally cool. It's refrain whispers forgive me, forgive me.
Forgive me.
