This Is How Things Are Done Around Here

Intertwined and unwound from the tapestry and the throw pillow on the blue jersey couch that I may yet call home if only for a moment my heart would stop pounding and eyes stop darting about the room, looking for the things that hunt me and haunt me from the inside and the out, and when will I dive into the woods to create a bonfire in the pitch black of night, stars and moonlight in a clearing and bleary eyes the next morning as the mist settles all around me, obscuring and protruding through every single space, the twigs and leaves dripping with a languorous and lethargic drip, the final autumn leaf pried from its prized bough, the moisture aiding and abetting the decay of the wonderful autumn, barren twigs reaching and grasping for every moment within every space as if for the warmth that will soon be all but siphoned from every inch and ounce about them, cold winter creeping in with a blizzard and a whiteout without any reason other than, “this is how things are done around here.”

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