the box breathed softy as i set it down in the corner. its contents not nearly as important as its weight.
the past remains stubborn. the future still timid.
the edge whispers its lullabies as i wonder what to want next.
we can fall. it's easy to do. sometimes fast. sometimes slow. the speed less critical than the height.
either way. the impact remains unchanged.
we live with the needles in our spines. subsisting on its stale medicines. while our skin gradually decays.
life fills us in with its empty pens. and i chase the words. like a hound intoxicated by the scent of pursuit.
lonely men with their fists clenched tight around regret. chew on the corroded remnants of truth.
words that once mattered. made meaningless by time.