Parkinson

The threatening nature of artificial objects, not snow dropping from pines nor windows shattered with frost but the flight of keys and bells and all that begs for subtle asides, all that is malevolent for this, all that falls, that disobeys my hands, those white apes mapped with the veins of the Via Dolorosa, all things that make my dry box spin, my body does not follow me, I often seem to look over my shoulder at the dark detective of age.