February 11th, Year of the Corpse

I shift from self-assured to criminally loaded with doubts, with absolute ease and surprise. This is ignored as I write. Black ink to contrast white paper. Notebooks that fill up an old bookshelf. Emotions lined up and pulled out against their will. A recollection of nightmares that tried to push me off the precipice. My brother tied to me, but the cord snapped. A monster hunting me down, never tiring despite the distance traveled. The kingdom that collapsed on me.

Noise is intrusive. It is constant. I am learning to manipulate it. This is the only thing I care to control now. The sounds that rise out the darkness. The echoes in the dangerous alleyways.

Nothing has the patience to wait forever. Everything will move in any direction that is open.

Horns do pierce, my Taurus, I say to Robert. Vile comportment devours affection, I say. Your limbs were tree branches for me to hang on, I say.

I do not wait. I move.

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February 11th, Year of the Corpse

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