“find me find me little truth”
In the mechanic whisper of old elevator shafts and ghosts of ascensions past-
I heard it once, and then I heard the advancement of steps, the clack-clack-clicking of cracked leather shoes, which fix audible imprints upon the marble. I was reminded of paint which throws fists at the canvas and leaves bluish brush-stricken bruises, or the peppered moth of the industrial revolution who swallowed survival’s stipend of soot (the cloth of the clock, or time’s crooked textile).
And the sound elapsed gave me these visions, so I became fastened to the echo which chastens.
I went down the hallway again and again. I lent my foot to different impressions;
“Okay, little steps, I’ve heard you now.”