Rye Whiskey: An Attempt
Spires, bevels, cross-stitch, thatch—these are incantations, lullabies you sing to yourself. These are words for crafters, for the ones who cannot sleep at night because their hands are wringing, molding spires, bevels, cross-stitch, thatch. You too cannot sleep. You too suffer from wringing hands, fears of cracked plaster and grease fire—blood stains. They, like you, are plotting. This is what I am telling you: this is a matter of them, and you; of sleeping, of wringing hands, of plots. Do you understand?
No. Listen—this is the image: white-washed walls, stone. Smooth like marble but warm like fresh blood. Against this, shadows of your fingers, interlaced and trembling, and your breath reflected in the lowlight dusk. This is the house of whiskey and failed murder plots and you are waiting for them. Do you understand, now? Yes—cross-stitch, thatch, bevel, spire. These are words for the shadow just at the edge of your vision, and the lies you tell yourself as you fall asleep each night, fingers interlaced and trembling.
