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  • There are no cat feet here but rather a blasting of ice and sand leaving vacuum behind.

    Unspoken and silent like fog, permeating every crevasse with a chilly damp, yes. A heavy wet blanket, cold, smothering, oppressive. Fire I could wish for -- a hot cleansing breath. All here is mouldering rot.

    No point in going anywhere. Trains, planes, destinations all futile when the traveler carries the infection within.

    There is no better. There is only this. Worn out, worn down, frozen.

    Every day, every hour, I win. My mantle is crowded to overflowing with gold statues. Blinded by the glitter of dazzling teeth and crinkly eye-corners, and no one sees the bloody smear from the body imperfectly rolled in the carpet and dragged down the hall.

    What else is there to do?

    Carry on carry on. Crawl, slither even. This is life.

    Is a child who draws broken windows wrong if he's never seen a whole one?

    There is nothing else. It grows like a redwood, taller, like a banyan, wide enough for Charlemagne's host.

    Sometimes I feel a warm breeze. I close in on the heat. I glimpse glitter and cheer, love, happiness, contentment, purpose, desire. Shining smiling faces looking forward with anticipation. Real. Real? A mirage. I know these words from books. I know these expressions from pictures. Real?

    A signpost directing the traveler would be redundant. One cannot abandon that which does not exist. To travel is to move is to shatter.

    I dream of death. People and dogs. Car crashes, drive-byes, collapsing bridges, dropping planes, stolen chocolate bars. Tornadoes, broken leashes, stomach cancer, brain tumors, rabid squirrels, thieves, plague. They're all immanent.

    The beginning is the big bang. Now the tide comes in relentless flow expanding as the universe to an infinity of frozen nothing.

    I am trite and pathetic. Don't pity me. I belong here.
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