another sunny day in the jaws of existential terror
I peek through dusty shutters at young women searching for skeleton keys in the high dry grass of the adjacent field. Wind blows pieces of their conversation through the keyhole and the cracks in my wall. If there were dogs here, they might bark at the migration of clouds or at the trees waving their limbs.
But all the dogs are dead. And nothing saves me from the clouds circling the motel and the trees closing in. And the women move deeper into the field. I hear fewer pieces of their conversation, like a radio losing reception.