I've never written so little. Walt Whitman sits on the bookshelf above my desk and weeps for my wasted years. I finish work early, at last, after all this time, but my insides are empty. I run along the river, in a park that money has eradicated, and try to pound purpose back into my limbs. It works, to the extent that wearing oneself out always worked, to the extent that air in my lungs leaves no room for the demons to grow. I want to go back out as soon as I return home.
In the morning, I try to read, but the writer is off on her own journey, digging through the rubbles of reality when all I want is escape. It's been too many years of real, now.
Give us a dream. I am ready for the dream.
I am ready for magic
again.
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