A snowflake? A formation of massed Roman Legions, left on Babylon's dust?

Where is the exit? Turning at each curve of this maze, which pure color shall I encounter?

Blues piled deeper on blues? Or Mississippi; black clay, white cotton, Muddy rivers of both water and song?

The paper is somehow mute. I am rattling it to reach your unheard voice!

art work coming up

He feels like standing in the street and crying shamelessly. The darkness, the denude seems to be shadowing the light that is failing and falling over the evening. He is sitting before himself. This other is many years older than him. And they are talking, but he is not really listening. His ears are closed with wax. He is somewhere in between the words. He tries to summon him to come back from this gap and listen to the conversation. But he refuses.

These are layers of memories that are being dug. And there is no purpose to this digging. Perhaps as the light falls all that remains of the day is memory, another knocked down building added on top of what already is there. And as the layers add up it almost seems impossible and futile to add another to take it’s place the next day.

He is going on now, in circles. He lost track of what he was talking about in the middle as something, a new tunnel perhaps came up in the digging and he followed it. He tries to recall when these things happened, was it a few years ago or many decades ago? The scale of time seems entirely meaningless in the long view. He is talking of someone now entirely new. Who this is he doesn’t know. But he doesn’t stop him to ask. He lets him talk; he lets him be alone with his memories. He has his to be alone with.

He is speaking of something that happened many years ago. Someone had done something very funny and he laughs. But he only wants to cry. What a strange predicament! He notices that the only conversations that he seem to be having about is the past, he is really only talking to his memories. Is that all that is left? That seems to be a hopeless proposition and he can’t quite accept it. But is this what will happen to him eventually as well? He shivers at that thought. Perhaps this is what was the problem was in communicating with her.

She said sometimes she noticed he wasn’t present at all and that she was frustrated about having to talk to a wall. She doesn’t realize that sometime he couldn’t simply take the sound of human voice anymore. His memories were revolving in his head, making a racket and he is beating his head against the wall of the shower till his forehead is scarred. The only other sound is that of the shower and water going down the drainpipe. He is calling out to her, his mouth a grimace, a silent moan. Who is she and why does she never come?