Signed

The temperature plummets. Scores of birds gather and fly south, they know there's no point in beating this dead horse, everything is ending. I went for a run along the snowy mountain and watched my breath take shape outside of me, this breath which tries so hard to center me even as I want nothing more than to fly away into the ether, I pounded out the miles in silence, with only a nearby eagle for company. The outside world grabs to steal my attention, tearing gashes into the lives of those around me, tempting me with alluring new promises, doing everything it can to distract me from the work at hand, the blinking cursor at the edge of a messy page. I wonder if it's possible to isolate oneself even more, but the secret they won't tell you is you never can outrun yourself. I see the exit signs along the road, itch to take one and see where it leads, but I return instead to the basement room where I am staying and begrudgingly tear a piece of paper from the pile.

(are you present? be here now.)

and I have nothing to retort.