Tonight I'm feeling a little nostalgic, listening to music from games I watched my brothers play, sitting on the convertible couch a bit too far to the left. The stories flickering on the screen were just as much my family. I wonder when they will pass on. If they do, it will be by my own hands, by my former mind decaying. My head is tense like my hands from gripping on.
I want to sleep away from the outside. I'd delve deep into the river in the midst of winter, hoping it would freeze at my touch, myself with it. The snowflakes would forever keep a twinkle on all, a twinkle in your eye, a twinkle on our brown standing piano. I trying to white myself out, deflate my brain and let it all dissipate.
Today my lungs are straining, training to work more efficiently. I'm pushing and pulling, but the cloth underneath doesn't want to bring me with it, just slipping from underneath, grounding me to the fatal table. It flies, I try to grasp it, but in all evidence I simply cannot because I'm too heavy, or not the right shape, or not fast enough. Definitely not fast enough: I'm late, I'm late, always running late.
