Better Lift

like people can read 100 books and still not have the fire within them

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

She closes the window. I wasn't paying attention anyway, I'm getting cold, and the birds are nowhere to be seen. I go inside.

It's dusk in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox. It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache. I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.

It Will Get Lighter