I labor steady, slowly, surely. Block after block, hewn from my ruin. This hapless task at hand. Construct a habitation of words. I use whatever I come by, wherever I happen to be. With an eye for the concrete and a feeling for sky. I’m a weedy terrain, dried up from AA and a searing of spurn. No smoke, no rain. I’ve been looking for signs or instructions: there are none. Or far too many. So I set out simply to make. A noun, a verb, an adjective; pasting with participles and pronouns. Tedious, thankless, alone. I build, it crumbles. It cracks, I evolve. Not much of a shelter, but it holds. And remains, opening up to the night.
Thanks for Madison Woods et.al. and the continuous production of prompts for this weekly challenge and exercise: Friday Fictioneers