Inconceivable that it was something like that that made me turn. A surprise, is what it is. My eyes are crusted with the stiffness of the morning; a poem in itself. Lying in bed can last no longer than two minutes, and then it is up and on the go and moving.
Fingers; hands start to work. Scrubbing, washing all the dirt and other things that have seeped like seawater into sand, onto my skin. If only I could wash () away too. But its abstractness detracts me from any remote possibility that such an easy eradication remains a way of escape.
Escaping is a coward's game but in this one there is no other way of finding means to and end and so everyone is a coward whether they like it or not. You in your smart tie and neatly folded cufflinks, hair parted sideways to the utmost perfect follicle, the face not moving but only the mouth: a waddling duck in a sea of impassive self-containment. Me in my children's clothes, or perhaps I would like to believe so, because I must rely on the preconception that assumes change is inevitable, I must rely on the fading thread of hope that life cannot always be like this: that one day I will take off all these clothes and dance naked in the street, laughing, as I stare at you staring at me in your same pressed shirt and immaculate tie.
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