in the kitchen an unused stove waits and collects dust. the kitchen was the center of family life. and as family life slowly and silently slipped into mythology, the kitchens grew silent and empty and sad. so lifelike and yet so dead. colours fading and edges cracking. i watch a lot of black and white films so that i can remember the future promised and never delivered. the ache in my heart keeps me awake. eyes on the shimmering horizion. watching the red star rising.
and if i sit still long enough. i can hear it. the sound of my own breathing. slowing reversing. backwards. and the clock tock ticking. and the slivers of sunlight creeping across the carpet begin to slow until they stop and then slowly, ever so slowly creep back from west to east. they say you can never go back. they lied.