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Before Ajay took a breath he was already mourned.
a false hope of concrete without doors;
A mindless tube light gathers yearning moths.
Then the lava hours of nightmare begin, the ceaseless rise and rise, the sudden fall, hour upon hour wrapping around valleys and hairpins, with air so cold it scars,
Free of the night. Ever more lost.
Everything is forgotten. A season goes by like this. Mostly sun-blind. Sometimes reflected by violent shards.
He sits halfway between holy and profane.
The man is called Jigs. “The Jig is up!” he cries.
He is clinging to the edge of something no one else can see. It’s the first time he’s used Ajay’s name.
Ajay is the beating heart of Sunny’s world. Wordless, faceless, content.
Nothing is the same. There’s a ringing in his ears. He tries to let it go. But he can’t clear the sound. He can’t shake the image. The cockroach a messenger, a portal. And now a chord connects him to the child he once was. Time and space folded over, as if to erase the life in between.
