24 September 2017

An Evening On the Breadcrumb

by Andrew

I never knew I had that flow. Till they says, Andrew, we let you go. Out the gates we let you go, we'll allowed you. Oh, that's right now? You allowed me now, they say? And I took that, barely got back.

Take from me what you want. Barely anything I got. Take it anyway. I laugh. The funny, you can never take what I have. You even read Frankl?

You got a Mercedes? That sounds nice. I got shit. But I got this. I laugh. It tickles my belly.

Next paragraph maybe says some other some such shit. I can barely type. The words look so funny, funnily. The song is over.

It comes like a dream. Icy fingers reach to touch my shoulder. A long shadow sweeps over the scenery. In an open field lined by wood in the dark and a blue haze, a pale figure moves in the white moonlight. You can hear the grass rustling and cold glass shattering. A twig snaps. That's what makes it real, the spectre.

And then you wake, you barely remember. It haunts you still, you feel. A bad dream you know. But memories fail. Like the spectre, back into the abyss it fades, somewhere there in your mind. But it'll be called to again, to come again. The nights grow long. The field grows frost. But hotter and hotter it all eventually becomes.

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