Some July Nights.

The bitter smoke inhaled and held. The shrieks of the train cutting through the song on loop, and the rhythmic motion of wheels on track, an external beat, drowning the words till the language became alien, and only in memory made sense. She stubbed the smoke, bits of fire flew, tossed by the mad wind like fireflies that have caught fire. The sky was overcast, probably a storm promising to rupture the sky, the soil was warm, restless in her wait for satiation. The process of forgetting, of erasure, of making invisible all the signs and sights that connect to it till everything dries into facts. Signification is muted till the pantomime ceases to appeal.
But to begin the end, to understand how its time is done, and no prayers, entreaties to a questionable God, or efforts and strategies can bring back what came free...
She closed her eyes to a rising storm...