Once the story stops, the lonely days cease.
A narrative clipped.
Evidence ground away by pulling back to see what actually is.
Grinding to dust something that was never there.
Lonely as story.
One as truth.
One as caving in hole.
An “O” of water circling a drain.
A natural arcing spin, a knowing of where it goes.
Round and round tightly, then through the O hole and, dang, gone to some other reversed scene.
Story adjective gone.
Like a shirt turned inside-out, flipped to do something different but not often done.
A garment no longer outer.
An inner turned out.
A hole spun to a reversed nowhere.
A dimension collapsed on itself.
The taking away, so much so, that away becomes somewhere else.
Reduced to nothing, something else comes, born of all that was taken away.