Crazy things are afoot. Teen killers in Pennsylvania claim multiple dozen murders and satanic associations. I have killed more time than any man alive.
New snow leaves a clean etch a sketch for me to write my name in using heavily lugged bicycle tires and absolute silence of thought that only comes when the blood is pumping faster than thoughts are able to form.
Trying to decide how early I should leave to ensure I get home. The bus is a scary place when service is reduced to the bare minimum.
Running errands is the fool's errand in this weather, with these road conditions. You take your life into your own hands, but the back roads are open and bare. We can slip through, untethered to traffic flow, stoplights, gravity.
Click, click, click, buzz. Studded snow tires tap a rat a tat in the grooves cut like sound waves captured in vinyl, disconcerting as the noise dopplers past.
What kind of business is this? Sitting. Standing. Aching back leaning into the wheel of progress that spins, but goes nowhere. What am I saying?
These are not my thoughts.
My head doesn't always spin in circles. Except when it does. Round. And round. And round. I seek the low road, the frozen raven in a tree. These words are animal crackers crumbling at my feet from lack of time spent awake.
Where.
The northern lights wake me in my dreams, pulling with magnetic insistence, insisting that every fear is real.
Nobody knows the trouble I've seen.
Nobody knows the taste of un-toasted oak sawdust on their tongue - eating wood is a sure, but rather slow form of suicide. But so is eating nothing. Or everything. Or some things but not the others.
What if this is nothing more than a simulation of a simulation of someone else's idea of what life is. We are the imagination of ourselves.
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