the characters no longer matter, the plot faltered long ago and many people have left for home. the theatre is closed and the only people left are those with feet stuck to loaves of bread.

soon when the moment is right they will be pulled into hell and in time all become birds.

———————————————-

every once in a while i have those horrible dreams where it feels like you’re living a life that you thought you should of had if failing wouldn’t of been something you’d gotten so good at.

there is one moment where im standing there and he has a folded up square of thick paper. i haven’t seen him in years. i’m not sure if he’s aged, but i know i have.

he unfolds the square and holds it up for me to read. the print blocky and light like it was written with determination, yet, the lead was too soft and thick. it was not determination present within the script, just the long letters of a final confession.

the words not his, nor they mine, now i think back. this is all a vacation from the real me forgotten three years ago.

my stomach hurt. trying to not vomit. freeze time. take me back.

————————————————

the moon leans down extra close and whispers to me – something half spoken – something completely implied.

i’ll lay down you down in your gingerbread coffin.