sheetsweat

the pen continues to scribble, without me knowing what it has to say, and paragraphs are slowly morphing into pages, getting me through a story without a plot or meaning, no subliminal message to pass on to the generations that will come next, that will follow exactly in the marks my feet have made in carpets and cement. i really couldnt care less, as a matter of fact. people that will soon die will follow the lives of those who already have, and the world will continue to spin, until she is so tired or bored, she just stops, simply to say shes done something different.

and i think suddenly that we are lucky we have not been flung into space. or maybe not.

...........