She lies sleeping at the bottom of your bed, drawing deep breaths into the still night around you. The air is cold outside your window, the season's first chill and it seems early, however welcome. I sat a whole day and a whole night in front of that screen, forgetting to eat, forgetting to move, and my joints hurt. There is a gray haze that spreads across my face in the afternoon. I'm glad you cannot see it; I don't recognize myself in the haze. I spent so many years fighting against a quiet enemy I never knew. Now I punch in and out with the clock, spend my spare moments recovering, and I don't know how I succumbed after all. This is not in our cards, my dear, this momentary weakness will not trump our mad vagabond airs and dreams of creative freedom. We will find the road, yet, and we will not go gentle into that good night. We will run the road, we will rage.
But I'm fractured,
from the fall.
(And I want to go home.)
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