empty plates divide. some for each of us. the road runs through us. places sour. maps dissolve. everything is lost.
the hours sweat. the alarm distorts. the stories are spent in missing change and torn tickets.
a bit of space. all broken watches and missing fractions. we didn't break the window. but i still took the fire escape. no use for conventional exits in those situations.
we found the curve. or we were found by it. the details didn't seem important. just one more empty bucket looking to leak all over us.
waiting for the world to end seemed such a tedious task. but we were fully committed. to all those beautiful monsters.
the crisis simmered. gently enough. no broken skin. just plenty of bruises.