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."
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