Sitting, I don’t care.

I hold the table with my left hand, or is it my right?

So many of them rushing past me, like in those time lapse videos.

They’re all black, gray, striped and solid, the background is not a contrast.

My hand, the last of the tender flesh that anchors me, I want to let go, but it won’t listen.

So much busyness.

I am still, motionless, unafraid to be left out.

Reminds me of a photo I saw, like those old black and white photos of New York.

Except this place was inhabited by a seemingly living grey-black streak.

It’s not beautiful or artistic, it’s not classy or art deco, its “real life”.

Everyone rushing to go, go, go…

I don’t feel hungry, thirsty, tired, horny, etc, etc, etc…

I feel normal, without even the simplest semblance of urgency.

Why can’t I be sinking to the bottom of a cool lake?

Why do I have to have to have? Something.

I need only myself, because I only need me to be free.

This just needs to fall away, just let me be.

I never was a good writer anyway.

Maybe I’ll just stop.




The End

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