On Purple Clouds and Blue Blankets

Whose head is the clock after?

The somnambulist wanders aimlessly, but for whom does the bell ring? She's not real, but he doesn't care. He chases every night but doesn't have the time to catch up.

The sniper above sits still without a breath waiting for the perfect moment to pull the trigger and kill the running man. The sun sets on a perfect day, violent, violet streaks underneath streaking clouds.

Will he ever reach her? Does she even exist? He stops for a moment and looks up. Like a bullet, he collapses in a sweaty blue blanket in the darkness. Reborn but not quite living. Why can't he reach her?

Whose head is the clock after? Time slips away, the knot slipping, things fall apart, gently, all at once, in quiet, muffled entropy.