the numbers trembled as i manipulated the equation. smooth glass between chafed fingers. collecting blood in dirty buckets.
it's always close. that hungry rope.
we don't look. as the needle pierces the vein. we trust the drug that we've chosen will be enough.
it's always soft. the soil as we run.
the distance sells me its stories. a carnival of flesh. distorted by expectation.
their words mostly dead.
the machine moves slower now. its engine filthy with our choices.
still time deftly moves us. through our faltering mazes.
we linger between the bread crumbs. gnawing on the knuckles of lost.
we settle inside our straw houses. polishing the wolf's claws.
everything is quiet. except the scavengers.