It is the same patterns keeping a momentum, pumped in afraid and snow-thirsty. We have been doing this mirage or magpie store or measures upon measures or medicine for a while now, it has become blunt-toothed, spurious, darker. I hear bells, and attacks and frays. I have tried make-believe, telling arguably horrible lies. I can spare static and its landmine explosions, though they provide amputation of the most trouble. There, the closed window. Here, the wind. Transparent, haphazardly tenuous.
I am not right. No. I am a pile of bridges, dislocated a few inches too far away to touch. I do not think I want to feel connected, not to this world if it makes me shudder like this without any warning. When it won’t even show me it’s face, that monster. I don’t want to be stitched into the armour and chain-mail and bones. I have the only one I need here, his eyes fold around my unfounded sunbeams.
The engines get enough nowhere as it is and even they continue to poison. Do they know what they're flitting ? I've got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shoulder and my unformed radios. I'll be back, I'll lose, gap-toothed, from the valley; you don't want me to go where you go, so I go where you don't want me to. It's only afternoon, there's a lot ahead. There won't be any strawberries. I distance on the screen and the stairwell turns.
