Nothing excited him, until then...and now he wondered was it a sin? Interactions were enchanting, he was chanting and it was normal. His feelings were fleeting - they were committed to memory and equally eagerly forgotten. He woke up sweating and panting, wearing wet sweatpants that smelled like the Atlantic.
Alone in his mansion, in order to calm a brief sense of panic, he roamed and located his phone. It was already dead. He noticed his wallet was open, overflowing with paper...and next to the cash was silver metal...and next to the keys were his greens, his past, a pistol, a pipe, and a light. Waking and baking, possessing possessions never provided the relief that the thief of his reality did, so effortlessly.
Flashing through a dreamlike scene, wandering into the wonders of a satisfied feign. Living was believing - and beginning. He drove the limit for a minute then skidded and submitted to the speeds of a slippery slope. Texting notes to perfectly handwritten unknown numbers, he packed a suitcase and waited. Yesterdays slumbers were awoken with minds soaking of schedules, outlined by human beings - whereas today's left brains left it all right behind. He felt unsafe, and now nothing excited him more.
Looking to the skies, gripping onto himself, he let it go and his replies came.
