. .prosodic arson. . . . . . .(header pic tribute to Zilon).

I suppose the sky is no more than sullen. Not particularly angry but loathesome from bellow. It does not rain but the weather is wet. It isn't cold but uncovered skin shows signs of goosebumps. The sheer mediocrity of the day's climate serves only to send shivers down my spine whether I am cold or not. The possibility has been biting at my ankles for the past week only now it has become all too real.

It was sunny when I awoke in the morning. The sky, blue slathered in white fish scale clouds. A sign that bodes for impending storms. In retrospect I should have taken it as a warning but rather, I was pleased by the simple pleasure of waking to the sun. It began to turn when I made my way upstairs: eleven steps, landing, left turn, five more and feel for the hardwood floor at the top. I could make this ascent with my eyes closed and frequently did.
The kitchen is always filled with light, though, this morning it was growing increasingly ominous, again, beyond my notice for the time being. Then came the bomb drop: you told me where she was. It hit me but the explosion came much later as though the shell landed on it's tail with the charge faceing up. It loomed delicately above my head like some twisted halo waiting for the lightest brush to send a discharge into the full brunt of it's hulking payload.
The detonator: one small clear tube kinked twice with a blue fitting in the middle. Two small openings emanate from this fitting and the aparatus serves to create a simple picture of desperation. It's carnal, this image. Contained in a clourless room under a colourless sky; what passes under and enters through takes on the same such properties. Blue becomes grey, flesh adopts a pale hue taupe in nature and red has been murdered. Even stopsigns, in this room, under this sky lose their vibrancy. Red is blood and though this room is in a hospital it still seems to be scarce, its flow truncated and sparce.
It's carnal, what all this makes me feel. Though dulled by restraint I can feel the panick in the pit of my stomach, at the back of my throat and especially in the weariness of my expression. My chest is loose, rendered useless to push air to articulate words and my hands rest on a table, planted like my feet.
It's carnal, when someone's system can't be trusted to breathe for itself, when beds have to form obtuse angles rather than be flat.
It's carnal in that it conjures a deep instinctual urge to let go. To clench all muscles and then release letteing all fluids flow as if in letting go of ones physical domain the weight of the mind will pour out aswell. It's like an orgasm from hell: it's just too twisted to enjoy. It's fucked up.
Like I said, it's carnal; the urge doen't make sense and the relief comes in the short term.
Theres no controlling the urges. My urges. You can't fight the tears just like you can't fight a sneaze. All you can do is close your eyes so they don't burst out of your head and clean up the mess with a tissue when its all over.
There's no controlling how I feel when you tell me that she won't be around for much longer. That you have been downplaying it all but the severity of the aflliction is far worse than anyone has let on.
There's no controlling how I feel but it's not your fault. You've been her shield and her support... We've been her love, and I suppose, I've been her progeny. I know I always will be just like you'll hold strong 'til then end that we both hope will never come as close as it may ever seem.

... There's no controlling how I react when My mother is at the end of an oxygen tube.
Come home tommorrow. I'll quit my job to come and pick you up healthy and safe if I have to. We'll deal with your arteries later.