LOOSE TOOTH// LOST YOUTH

a child born of halflight. the hazy indifference of dawn and dusk. fog rolls in on the open road, traveling through dry and barren fields on a quietly thundering current of winter sleep. it seems to draw away the light, hiding it somewhere deep inside of itself. saving it for later. half light burns.

a child born of streetlight. black winter, red eyes. break lights out of focus in the winter fog. ice on your breath, and the empty feeling that nothing is as it should be. the red light flickers, and again you’re on the move. traffic fades. black on black, trying to get as far away as possible. streetlight burns.

a child born of no light. black like the innards of a dark and desolate corridor in mid-december. family photos hang on the opposing walls, and you can’t see them. in the dark, all you can see is the tension that builds under the pressure of blindness. but you can feel the families staring back at you. you can feel yourself nearing the end of the hall. no light burns.

a child made of light itself. or maybe the lack thereof. a child whose existence is based solely on vengeance and brevity. a child not of this world. freakishly deviant and quietly unnerving. white on black on black on white. extra terrestrial; slightly incestual. family photos and traffic jams and the fog that comes from early dusk. or maybe it was dawn. you wouldn’t know because you haven’t slept in years. constantly on the run. fueled by the fear of the unknown, and the big-bright-dark-world that you inhabit.

fueled by a fear of the child.

fueled by a fear of light itself.