Walk away and never turn back the notes when I say their ink are but colours of unseen before mine eyes can eat the words with tearing face. Imagine his kneeling before the drum of the sun beating then all come mute when no sound can utter the ache that trembles. He had to become evil. He had to leave everyone. He suddenly never appeared to himself so good as to God forsake. He read a letter from himself when he slowly transformed into the darkness and wanton sought his id to bigger fright in meagre sounds he makes: weeping. It’s just that he can’t weep; he used up all his tears.

So deprive him of sleep. So cast an essence on him long lost to find himself through road or the highway driving his skull to a fragment remain. If only he could go back and mirror himself another way; did he ask for the genes that make him thus? What right did he have when he was born? He’ll soak a sutffed toy with all his love, but when he remembers all but tears remain. That’s where it all went. This is his birthday and this is the gift he gives to a friend in whom he could not remember a name. She’s here.

He has to travel, you see, just stepping through these small metre-wide stones. They’re just stones but they’re only special. Somehow he leaps and jumps, despite the water of ice and ethanol calling him to soak his skin under a vapourised fume of disgust and shame. He can see his id just gorging on so many things his God would never permit; he was alone. He could never see himself again. Every mirror became twilight; and when he looked, he became whole.

Slow were but miles short of a yard to travel. Jump. Walk. Run. All the hours suddenly became his minutes to fall. Like a bus that travels half the world and no end in sight; it was like his mind turned to glass. Here he was and with that tearbled toy he could not imagine giving it to her. He wanted the sun again to dry tears to salt that he may squeeze out and never look back again.

These stones are gone. They’re lurking in the shade of glass. The snow that bites his skin suddenly drooled in sweat that iced his heart which once was covered in blood. And all the time he spoke himself, these long years he died twice so he can live once again.

So mix these vials of blood and piss for perfume fought; these breathing souls that float the stones before the way are now the lamps to guide away. Tread lightly, for these steps sink with every weight and every second you stand. So sit a while to balance yourself and do nothing for a while to do everything in the meantime. You’ll see her, and then you’ll be happy.

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Prose, Realism, Works
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