Cicadas scream ceaselessly into the dusk like old veterans awaiting night and night terrors. They shout defiance in deafening synchronicity which, while futile, lends a shred a credulity to their otherwise bafflingly meaningless display of instinctual rage. Maybe they are just singing. In either case, a common acceptance by all associated populations is generally (but not necessarily) important for a thing to appear credulous; so, in their great choir, be they mad with ineffectual contempt or overcome with joy (and lust!), the outcry retains an appearance of merit.

The ground before me is soaked in fresh urine. Smoke rolls from the cavernous opening wedged beneath lips and teethish stalactites. In sobriety there is a roaring monster, of many heads, which prowls around in shadow, those whose construction is of nature and those which are constructs rather of men, or a man. It's heads are fear of death, fear of the unknown, fear of passion, and fear of success, and those inverse fears which apply. Collectively, then, the shadow-beast might be named a generalized fear of life, or broad anxiety.

There inside my mustache the taste (or what we have mutually agreed to refer to as the taste, though it is not really similar to the taste of natural grapes.) of grape hides, coolly waiting to be lapped at, accidentally or with a predicating knowledge. Emptily the tongue flicks at it, more out of janitorial duty than any desire for the sugar water.

The book was good. It was a good read, at least. Time passed unnoticed. What more can be asked of eighty year old words? A kind of intellectual poverty sinks in. It is a combination of unchecked anxieties and a surrounding which does not lend itself (in a particular case) to those leanings. Here a quick joke is more the reward than a well placed reference to some dead writer we read as children, forget as youths, and recall fondly our implanted memories of as adults.

L'Etranger wasn't all I cracked it up to be.

The sounds of a professional basketball game bleed onto the soft melodies of a dead man who recorded himself dying, accompanied softly by a guitar and simple drum work. Beneath that sound and those around it, the melody, the whirring of life's machinery, there is a simpler noise. It is a heart pounding in my ear. Still beneath that, a truth, feared; it is quiet. A kind of buzzing fills your ears with lack of noise, but this silence, which is at once apart from and a part of you, it is boundless, expanding, indefinite, yet meek. All at once it booms death and birth in your heart and whispers butterflies to your stomach, where black hope-shadows leak to your bowels and are shit upon paper to call forth better dreams. Emptiness. The noise is lack of. The noise defines itself against indefinite silence.

Happiness, too, is this same sickness. We are constructs of dust given breath by chance or God, the claws of wretched entitlement cutting tight into our chests from birth, pink and new and dying. Sadness also is a myth. From the moment we are launched uncounscious from our father's **** we are only ever promised death. Shadow is a promise, too. Shadow as a lack of light, lacking too it's contrast. Light fades, where dust belongs, endingly, to shadow. Cold ash will collect sparsely throughout an unlit universe, and only a lack of noise and a lack of light will be left. This is real. As real as soundless pitch. As real as dying death. This is real.

Enough. Welcome, hello. That's what I said. My guest, young, wild eyed, hair dyed wrong colors, half asleep in contentment, says nothing for a while, besides what is said through a small and lasting smirk. Finally it fades, parts, splits like the Red Sea to show me words, a path forward, from genocide and Pharaoh.

'Hey! You look...Well enough.' He laughs. I laugh.

I'm laughing at nothing, really. The wall if a name had to be put on it. A bug bounces between it and the light, and though the bug will eventually bludgeon itself to death, the larger part of me feels for the wall. I laugh at it. With it. The struggle is real. It waits.

There is something unmirth, not of the wall, but of the way he stands idle in the door. All of him, to the atoms, is aloof. His thoughts, though I cannot know them, are scattered and wiry and mostly half-finished. With better vision I might see myself reflected in twin mirrors; my sunken eyes likes cavernous lakes with milky whites and frosty blues, my pallor, my frailty, the meekness of the bones which frame my meat like wire mesh. I am gaunt. No more dying than us all, no more living than some.

'Thanks, champ. Good to see you.' I croak. It sounds distant, like a mother crying across the winds of a terrible storm to her child with no hope to move her voice over the swells. There in that doorway I recognized once again the gulf of our islands, that gulf which grows as quickly and irrationally as the universe itself, until distance itself becomes irrelevant, as there is no longer another island near enough mine to define distance by. Endings. Treacherous endings. Indifferent endings. All the same. Time moves and dust becomes itself once more. It fades. Ash in wind.
This is an interesting piece, weaving it's way around different elements of your consciousness. There a couple of places where I feel there is too much of a jump between paragraphs, maybe this needs breaking into sections? I think "Happiness..." suffers from this particularly.

I also think the onslaught of alliteration at the start of this makes for an unnaturally fast read, I'd recommend toning that down to let the sentences and ideas breathe.