And the dead weight of late December left me objectified. Erased and rewritten, at the mercy of the sharp wind and filtered tones. A thing, separate from the processes that craft consciousness, I willed those fingers at the end of the arm, willed them to close around me. Presence was not of the year.
And an even heavier weight of hypocrisy did close around me then: who may ask for presence when it cannot be received? “Be with me, here” I demanded the both of us. And I knew the demand was for more than spoken when “how?” produced no thoughts, no ideas, in the object body I carried. Shrugging and moaning, the wind and I.