Control

So there's this inclination: manage the flames if you can't quell the fire.  I don't care about any of it.
I think of driving west in the late afternoon as we slip to winter, and think of the heavy, wet lakes that come so close to the road. I think of the light, the darkness and coolness of the lakes and the sky above them, how I have no home except all homes, life.
This is the mud.  We are made of mud.
My heart remembers songs it never heard.
A person might ask, what have I done?
Nothing.  We've done nothing.  Nothing happens.  It doesn't matter.
The walls and the bridges and the guardrails.  The trees.
Drive past the trees, and remember.  The secret plans, the escape.
I don't remember things I should, because I am full of pretend things.
I see the lakes, I see the light, and I am my own memory.