Someone once made an anecdote about hiding in the ceiling.

Draw upon that ancien rote, and you might grasp a splinter fleeting.

One more step. Just one more.

Suddenly the stride becomes you. Idle times forgotten. Training day for a sullen soul.

And running is a numb feeling.

"Oh, it is not. Stop talking."

On the windowsills we pray. Hear the calls and wake to new cut...

"Do you? Why? I forgot my lighter, borrow yours?"

A forest of cadaverous trees stretching, weeping as I go by.

"Underpass or the road, do you need anything from the store?"

Crawling up and through the snow never slowing down..

"I didn't think you needed me there. I never even ..."

You know that I have daydreams of drowning and I'm not afraid of them.

"You should."

But I want to run away.

"Fuck you."


It's a late goodbye