untitled

i look at you and i laugh a laugh of cautious happiness. it is more like ragtime and less like jazz. it is unsustainable though, one of the many things that won’t last long enough. when the sound fades the memory is already distorted. was it really ragtime or was it blues? how can i be sure? i write to counteract. to preserve the unpreservable. ink is embalming fluid but already the body has decomposed. the current is entropic and the struggle hopeless.