Tuesday 12/02/2008 12:31:00 AM

We had baked potatoes. Crisp on the outside with delicate innards. Like old men in their scratchy sweaters insisting its warm enough. Like little girls with their dolls dangling from their wrists. Making a trail in the mud as they run. Toward.

And away.

From everything that they love.

Half dead. Half naked. All the way scarred. Stronger for it. Coaxing the shadows to persist as the light behind her steadily dissipates.

We had beef. The tough kind no amount of wine can cure. Smelling soft and juicy as the room filled with dead things. Giving my salivary glands a hard on as I waited for the sauce to thicken. Like people. And their arbitrary conversations. About themselves. How everyone else fits into the plan that is them. Crippled gods looking for steps back up to Olympus. Like little boys. Their sneakers all caked in mud. Coming home to white carpets. Big houses where the small things have no constant.

Perception is a devastating flaw.

They go searching for roads they can barely remember. Half asleep. Lies they never believed. But now must. They search the walls for clues to escape their prison. Headlights through the window. Ravens on the ledge. They linger in the doorway.

Wearing out the last of their crayons. Coloring in all those windows.

Their dead dolls. A tedious pendulum. Time has forgotten.

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