Everything around me is slower and more defined. The lines between the roads and trees and sky are slow lines, non definite but clear somehow...
I look at my fingers wrapped around the bentcher, the discolored pages from years of use...time to move on.
I drive with a dead stare into the distance, not sure I should really be driving at all. The late summer leaves are still green but lined with the yellow-orange of tomorrow
And I drive on.
Sounds roll through me without impact,. Death is a funny thing, wiping it's mouth of the hope it consumes...
My arms are heavy, my feet are like lead moving un-eagerly on...
I have no one to blame but Gd.
So I cover her over with the soil made of the decomposition of aspiration.
What's left from here but the discolored pages of me, from years of use...time to move on.
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