Sunday, September 07, 2008

Regret always shows himself without revealing his face.

He whispers into ears plugged with sounds of anger. Dissonance. He fills the bus seats, stroking away invisible cobwebs on bandaged knees, reaches into cracked and bruised chests and slows the natural rhythms of arteries. Bloodflow.

He is already there, before voices are lost in the midst of failed exclamations, breaths that rarely make it past faltering lips, breaths that fall and splash heavily onto concrete, landing in shallow gutters amongst all the other offal. Rubbish. Washed away with the mud but smearing along streets all the same.

And Regret always says the same thing.

Next time is never.

Regret. Such a strange bedfellow.

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