The withering triads of despair moved through the veins of the iris that late autumn morning just as the first murmur of decorum stood upright in front of the dressing mirror.
He always dressed well for the first coffee shop on Sundays. Not out of any sense of piety, but out of indifference to the casual cause of unproductive weekends.
Those thirty-two or so waking hours where society and nature forces an unquestionable break to the sublime servitude of capitalist endeavour in order to mark the passing of time in units that fit neatly into celestial circumferences.
The moon was responsible for so much disorder in an otherwise linear pattern of work, sleep, defecate, ingest, bath, procreate, renunciation and noir walks of satisfaction.
Prose Poem [Fragment] by Benito Kobayashi
Photo by 5second on Adobe Stock