Circus

I'm at once ready to say a million things that aren't mine, but nothing gets out. Impractical as I know it is, I gape at you for a good minute. Too long for a pause of casual significance. I can feel the close of a meaningful pause into a barren area of elapsed time. A horizon of sensation finally trickles in after the third minute, reaping a letdown that perhaps plays into the mood. Plays into the mood. I look up and there's a glint of fervor at your chest, and the yellow torchlight dresses you in plaintive glow. Coalescing in your cheeks your forehead, and the direct reflections of your skin, you are a skeleton. My eye has stripped you, or call it my eye stripped, but here we seem to be: naked, but for bones that do not indicate human enigma. Thrum to my chest and behind my eyes something lapses into an instant of sleep, dreaming a shotgun. I've dosed off. The next thrum charters screams into my inner passageways, and eyes burst open:

Elephant of hair and leather and ancient tusks, eyes like earrings, accessories to massive guile; indistinct man caped to indicate the grandiose, pleads attention like it plagues him, dread neuroses, imagined and otherwise frame his context to me; resting trappings of trades long played out. This is here. It for that moment laid alone in its intention of diversion. Now it is merely in front of me like the sloping hillock of fleshes an bones glowing yellow for torches.