The petals have begun to fall ever more, stems loping down the side of the vase like scorned dogs. Their present arrangement disquiets the eye. They seem to speak a tongue lost to time, conjured through vexation and angles of chance. Striking though, upon viewing the sloughing mass, are the secrets they reveal — secrets that transcend the mere workspace we now occupy.
I can hear the flowers in my sleep. They sing the song of rot and putrefaction, a melody out of time and syncopated, the sound of a nail almost being drug across a chalkboard. They have, in their unceasing shuffle towards greatness, become strikingly plain in their splendor. Theirs is a language I am beginning to come to terms with, everything somehow always in the past perfect tense and a mess of verbs that command. Traduce. Devour. Consume.
My colleagues regard me as ever stranger — how can they, here, cohabitate with this rotting mass and not see it’s call? Surely they must be inculcated with information, these oft perverse and fragmentary visions of truth lost, not to time but to state. Why would they keep these secrets from me, or are those who are away, the sick, just planning some careless introduction of a more profane vision for when they return?
The songs know me and promise to bequeath great gifts, if only I could harness that power. I shall take some few tiny petals away with me this evening. To study only. Alone. This will surely provide the breakthrough I am seeking, and present me with a path to the secrets so painfully close…