swampwater captured sound

the bottom of my brain pan must be littered with crimson flakes as i’m grinding rust off all the edges in some sort of effort to put things in motion and lurch forward into motion. how long spent in stir with the bare minimum of effort expended, settling into this beastly hermitage with no end in sight.  the old moss gatherer, piling stones in heaps along the riverbanks, monuments to some damn thing, just as quickly forgotten. scraping knuckles on a battered pickup in a dark room. forever unplugged. mixing static into soup, wishing for far-away places and half-remembered dreams to please make sense. just once, a finished conversation.