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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