the dreams were gone for good (her cover was blown.) it hurt, but not enough, and there were parts of her that almost didn't care. things hadn't exactly been making sense to begin with, and so the next chapter did little to detract from whatever residual sense was left over. This had all felt like leftovers anyway. leftover love from some other who didn't quite deserve it, so that there was spillage. and what looked like blood was really love sewage, crusting on the tile. the tile sent shivers through her bare feet and she thought about the sunshine, and secretly prayed for it to come and burn the congealed loveblood right up off the floor, so she wouldn't have to see it (out of sight, out of mind). but for now, she would have to simply watch her step.
oh, wake up, wake up, wake up, youre only part of a dream...all the things in your heart, like the things in your head, theyre only, what they seem yeah, theyre only what they seem...
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The anxiety still crept inside him, burrowing through his organs, it felt like a worm with gnarled fangs was devouring his soul. He thought the pain deserved an archaic metaphor but his anxiety was too distracting for him to conjure anything compelling. He enjoyed making himself upset, that’s why he read her writing again and again, changing the brightness level on his laptop until the vague third-person prose seemed like first person again. The pulses of light moved him beyond the planes of metaphor and into the realm of his own insanity: an office overlooking some city of composite origin. There are several self-help guides, an organized oak desk, papers filed neatly away, and a calendar full of important tasks. Inside this prison, he remembers her smile and the sparkle in her eyes when she looked at him.
Etched into the desk are a few words: emotions are temporary, decisions are permanent.
He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, he has been impressed with how well his guitar has made a good substitute... he prays he'll feel better tomorrow.
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