trompe-l'espirit

a cold grey day where the world is blanketed by a soft covering of misty rain and I'm snuggled by my brother's dark red jacket in my room of warm browns and cosy ethnic tones. michael buble's planative voice streams from my black laptop as he sings for home- starry starry night and both sides now have been playing previously. the fan keeps up its soft whirring and the young wind pats everything around me gently, a blissful infant tenderly touching its mother with the chubby, loving little palm. the reason why I write is because for the third time I have heard the blare of a ship's horn from the port in harbourfront yes. I can hear the seasound from my room in eusoff whose view outside my window is a canopy of dark dark green leaves and treetrunks planted against the light so that all I see is black holes of trees -as the paravan from the god of small things would assure rahel and esta with the full confidence of a believer why. can't I remember his name but I can the lyrics. the horn sounds for the fourth time now and I close my eyes to savour the taste in my ears unbelievably it goes on and suddenly something inside me shudders and I. I am alive, I transcend, I am a void, I am a black hole and I sucksucksuck all of eternity inside me limitless and infinite I swallow in gulping desperate gaps I cram I wallow in the moment and all I can say is I thank the muse who inspired the german word augenblick and echo dillard and faust "Verweile doch!" and am grateful I have pilgrim at tinker creek on my shelf.

I'm telling you, cry to the heavens for the augenblick to "verweile doch!", that we may all trompe-l'espirit.
cry. cry. cry.