Short reflection: brick-by-night bodies drown in bedsheets
Envy of simplicity, empty complexities... one's universe is breaking into its base but infinitely small bits. The present is well out of hand;
and?
Cannot live; not because it's difficult, but because it's deceptively easy to trundle through time, pretending yourself away. I don't like feeling whole. I prefer to flicker, and shiver, and be light and infinitely malleable. Imagine two lives colliding, and what happens when they're explained away? Once put into words, one's history is, by definition, a lie. Chirp, chirp, meta-chirp.