the oranges and the stove and the streetlamp through your only window
and what will be left of you, grest survivor? the scarf you wore for all of january, the milk in your fridge, ripped off jokes repeared a little louder. theres a horseman at your door with a car for you, no one knows what it means. your bloody napkins will be taken by the garbagemen tomorrow and they will be gone and you will still be here. the oranges you left out, the pot of coffee you made, consolidations on billboards. and you will crawl your own house like an intruder, like a centipede. poisoned by the fumes coming from your own stove, poisoned by the fumes coming in through your window. life could be a dream in some far off land where you get lost in every moving cog in the machine. learn how to forget how to fall asleep without a train bustling past your window. try a little harder next time.