Underfoot the grass grows green

The city’s teeth scraped a dusky peach of noon shaped sky. Dogs howled loosely at the blushing plexiglass causeway next door. The forecast said rain. Ari Aghavni set his first foot on smiling pavement. Crowded lonely trains, blank fluorescent lights, and ticking plastic clocks pushed past the solitary man standing still in the midst of his life.

Ari knew the exact day it all came to to be this way. That day was today. It was also yesterday and the day before. While his finger couldn’t hold down the seconds of his life, he was dazzilingly aware of what the day was. Tuesday.

Words of fellow men, whom Ari loved deeply with a full leaden brow, flowed a tide, carrying him away from himself. Ari said words too. He meant them sincerely. Yet, as he sat on beating plastic chairs through streets now safe enough to chose not to walk them, he couldn’t remember what the words were. He was fairly certain that he had given fists filled with words, sprinkled liberally between the verdant undulations of his office, but what grew within his evergreen companions was now lost to him.

Opening his shadowless apartment, the furniture of his memory ushered him into a fastidious dream. Youthful moments and letters of lost lovers paled artfully his present and past. While he owned two couches, he never sat in them. He ate alone, ardently practical, believing only a lonely man would go to a restaurant by himself. As he looked out the window, the beauty of the star framed night overwhelmed him. Shocked, unmoving, he waited. The adagio of a lone arvensis lifted his soul to sleep.

Ari wondered without searching. He loved without caring. He lived without life. Passionate, still, disintegrated; the sun rose a brilliant pink, passing the cozy window nestled within a smoldering ruin of books. Ari reached out and held it in his arms as a flickering warmth dawned within his flowering ribs. 

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