Like a clapboard noises out, a guillotine blade falls, flash goes off, shutter comes down, sun comes up and in sometime it makes your head spin and it's hot and dreary.
As if one willfully surrenders to be in a room perpetually in the moment. Makes it their own and then every other day bang on walls, break things, write profanities, talk to oneself. One made it for two. Is left singularly solo. One doesn't realise it's made for one. Was for one. Meant to be for one.
The food will run out, and they'll eat the other's time. Crunch up words and wave sleepily to ideas that go to a distant unnamed place. The farm. Where the parents put your rabbits when you were 7.
Shot up to black, occasionally sparkly space which could be either what they tell you or someone just punched a few holes in your paperbag which you wear on your head as a necessary precaution. Not to offend.
Paint walls with a childish landscape only to realise its wallness.
Lick on a cardboard ice cream.
Step over to avoid a dry puddle.
Feel a stair where there wasn't any. You haven't reached.
Mistakenly dip a paintbrush in chocolate milk.
Write this because you want to write this.
It's thoughtmurder. Thoughtdeath. Inward terrorism. Cornsyrup utopia. Autotune. Autopilot.
Make a gash. Sing. Dry up.
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