A mechanical ache hangs on me like a cloak on nights like this.
No twist or pivot aids me, but like and addicted fool I gnarl myself into an old oak branch.
A gentle throat clears itself, leaving a bullet hole in the silence. It bleeds.
The sharp clicking of silver against glass foretells the cold flood that washes the ash and tension from my chest.
Pink and black steal my plans for the night. I let them.
No matter how deep into the smell of nature you may trek, you will come across the stink of shit.
Welcome to earth.
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