Mom, he doesn't belong.
I don't want to die. I keep dying. It's the same every day!
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Why is he still carrying you through the threshold?
Is our belonging just a fading ruse?
aaaaa... Listen to me, Son... I should know what I mean...
Terry was awake the whole time.
My sycophant intent is suppressed by the heavy light of truth.
Mom, the doors are too sparse.
I don't want to tell you. You should know. My face, face turns redder... and redder.
A red-skin man looks toward a cycloptic future, and I see the brown past in the backyard where the hairy balloon hangs from the tree that doesn't exist.
Subtle fortunes mistake our good looks for wages deterred by uninformed loungers.
Mom, we can leave. Everything is so far, anyway. So far, we have not needed any information to freshen up our cloudy afternoon drives through ashy sodden lost woodlands cut by black/grey highways.
Let's go. Make it like 5:30. I'm a game. Sorry does not cut anything. We forgive and forget and forget faster than human population growth. Sorry to be a down stroke. One only rises from the down beat.
Suffering. Less fade. Dust layers reach from floor to ceiling. Abandon me, personalized identity option.
That's dumb, honey. Why don't we say this was the first try and go to the real one, when we feel like we're ready?
We feel like we're really ready.
