That was the place...where your hollow, metallic-tasting, humiliation turned a burning shade of rancorous red and the crumbling stone labyrinth of oppressive silence was abandoned during the freezing midnight of the final freeway. The indelicate flavour of blood, and the sudden spasms of perfect pleasure combined in your vacuum mouth and were absorbed, immediately. It happened there, right in the midst of fitful sleep and competitive wakefulness. Rivulets of sweat washed over the dam of your collar, the calendar's momentum was paused and impudent showers of needling ice-water stabbed into your skull like sharpened bones built from stilled seconds... they widened those wounds that defined your mind. It was precisely there - in the fullness of your 'forties - that you reclaimed that purple-drenched darkness and rewound the clock of confusion that had been wrapped and stored since it's era of remorseless pomp...at the half-life of your 'thirties.
