in cookie factories we build tales of grandeur

But reality is here, alone, I stand with seven legs. He sings and I listen, dreams, coat of red. This bloody mess we live. Let dream live. Fate decreed it. We obey. In obedience, omniscience.

The wind scatters the leaves. The leaves fly and the leaves flow, and they flow like a gentle flowing river. Like rats, they flow and they scamper in the dark. The birds were chirping.

Yesterday he tore his throat raw. Today he would scream no more. His body was heavy. Heavy as though all the sins of the world were sitting on his poor—shaking, shuddering—shoulders. And as hitched breathes smuggled out his throat, he knew there would be more.

“Against boredom even the Gods contend in vain.”

If you don't pretend you want nothing more than what you have then you're gone.

I see myself again. Like maggots, they crunch underfoot. Perfectly wretched.

Don't you ever think of belonging somewhere? Having people expect something of you? Is that so horrible? With the wind I go, to places unknown and towns yet to be visited.

Dreams here and dreams forgone—there were twenty-seven shades of green in a cluster of leafs. You counted.

Resist. Desist. You ceased to exist.

You can’t hold on. You have to hold on.