Typeface

She clatters the pads of her fingers in frantic raindrops. The cobblestones take the warmth of her skin and wear it as their own, painted with the scrambled bones of our sounded history. White scars of marrow, rich with cool, drunk tongues, skid into each other, a rolling storm sucked from the surrounding black plastic flesh onto the placid white screen where they become words, alive where words are more important than people. These are the fossils that are dead to the gamblers who grind them and the heirs who squander them for whatever currency the meaning of life takes today, whether it is bitten down to sobriety or left bloated in its dreaming.

Cross-posted from laspalabritas.tumblr.com