Seven turning suns and seven sentient moons. Fourteen resolutions of the earth for every day that lives and dies. My resolution wanes. Fades into a humming grey. A place of little effect and no reason. And the doors slam. Every one a cannon marking time. Every one the sound of rending. Of something made smaller. And time slows like treacle. A sickly sweet wade of decreasing desire. A reluctant tick dragging its heels for each reluctant tock. I watch the moons wheel. I watch their pocked faces grow fat again. Leering from a yellow sky. Rudderless and formless and empty. And I watch the purposeless suns turn. And I breathe in the thick air, slow and shallow breaths to hide the stench of impending disaster. I wait for my chance, my moment. I wait for one of the doors to bounce back on its hinges. I wait for escape and release and deliverance. I wait for absolution and forgetting. I wait for tomorrows that bleed from the edges of today. I wait impatient and grasping. For things that will never come.