MAKESHIFT OMNIVORE
I am sitting beneath a tree, clutching
my head in my hands. Too much do I
think of the end. My own. No reasons
surpass what I can come up with to
want to live on. I, who was once the
best, am now the worst.
-
What to do with a million seconds?
Throw them all away? Carry them from
home, to another place indeed? Pat them
on the head, as if they were small children?
Outlandish responses to an outlandish scene.
If you misunderstand me that is not what
I mean.
-
I mean to say the opposite of what you
think? There's a shell in the island of
living. It stays in place in spite of all
the tides that may slash at the shore.
Fate is a makeshift omnivore.
No comments:
Post a Comment