Spencer Linford


The park is the first stage of pain in life.
Where dreams and hopes and joy die faster
than ants fried by young and ruthless

psychopaths armed with spherical glass. The
first place others tell you no. And yes, at
times, a beautiful place as well…

Everything in excess is ugly: the park, the 
sun, the moon—also tears, joy, sorrow, and 
especially time. 

The second, a tiresome unit of time: short
and incessant, it titters at a supernatural 
pace. In excess, they create

Minutes: older, but hardly better. Too
short to complete a proper thought, minutes
lack a graceful break—Hours are older still, 
but 24 of anything is lavish too.

There are many days and so, they have more 
chances than the rest to be beautiful, and 
even so, their successes are few… 

A week is lucky every time, but rare are 
beautiful weeks and fleeting too. 

Together the months act as beasts of burden. 
Twelve oxen that carry the ugliest son of a 
bitch—years: mean, hideous, painful and 
protracted, more violent than all the rest, 
fatal en masse… 

…Beautiful time of any order is hard to 
come by. To share a beautiful time is near 
impossible, save with an unknown stranger 
who may or may not exist… 

But the park exists. It has existed longer 
than most and hardly looks itself because of 
it. The park is a victim of excess time. The 
park is ugly because of time but manages to 
persist because it avoids all reflections… 

And as the time passes the pond soaks up 
the moon. The sun has set if not on me then 
on the shadows beneath the park’s familiar 

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