< Previous Chapter | First Chapter With the sunrise, grumble, writhe. A solid cube sealed allows nothing out and nothing in. A landslide tumbling from the mountain would only drive it deeper, and the mountain does not even tremble. Can he pull himself up? Can he pull himself up to face disappointment? Can he, when the motion may blow out the flickering candlelight in his chest? Two days ago, a pair of feet were salvation. He imagined them righteous steps, invigorated by the final victory of the worker, but they passed by and he pretended not to notice they were calfskin loafers warm in the daylight until they were long out of view. Has he convinced himself yet that he’ll hear the march of justice just fine from the bed? Not that it’ll matter, he’s not getting up again. The quiet of the outside world is louder than it’s ever been and it’s blaring outside his window. He doesn’t need his ears. The absence of sound can vibrate in through his skull and shake up every lobe and wrinkle and that’s where the meaning lives. Pouring out it will cover his body and drench his spirit because you know. Another day, another hour, another second of the mangled clock in his head. But he knows. He knows it isn’t coming.
Faster on My Own: Chapter 44
Faster on My Own: Chapter 44
Faster on My Own: Chapter 44
< Previous Chapter | First Chapter With the sunrise, grumble, writhe. A solid cube sealed allows nothing out and nothing in. A landslide tumbling from the mountain would only drive it deeper, and the mountain does not even tremble. Can he pull himself up? Can he pull himself up to face disappointment? Can he, when the motion may blow out the flickering candlelight in his chest? Two days ago, a pair of feet were salvation. He imagined them righteous steps, invigorated by the final victory of the worker, but they passed by and he pretended not to notice they were calfskin loafers warm in the daylight until they were long out of view. Has he convinced himself yet that he’ll hear the march of justice just fine from the bed? Not that it’ll matter, he’s not getting up again. The quiet of the outside world is louder than it’s ever been and it’s blaring outside his window. He doesn’t need his ears. The absence of sound can vibrate in through his skull and shake up every lobe and wrinkle and that’s where the meaning lives. Pouring out it will cover his body and drench his spirit because you know. Another day, another hour, another second of the mangled clock in his head. But he knows. He knows it isn’t coming.