A thing hangs over me.  

It denies place.

And while it is a steady constant extrusion, its lack of immediacy, catastrophe, imply an endlessness.  Its just a steady drip.  an interminable drip.

Each drip a moment.  each moment survivable.  no greater order or meaning other than the impossibility of escape, and the steady drip of moments.

[Who took place]

[How can I be without place]

The sun shines.  It is a paper sun.  It is pinned to the board like the faces, the cars, trees.

I walk in an echo box. light bounced back and forth, never escaping, not all of it, bouncing and compounding to make real, and loud, to bully down the senses, to shout quiet the mind.  this is nothing. nothing is here. I am just minutes.