Going through grass like butter. High trajectory. It spins back to the hole. Pink mountains of cotton candy lose height through hikers who get their shoes so sticky, so pink. An orange tree in rainy weather. Wooden sounds as tear drops fall on moss. Glass constructions that fragment the light. A woman with thin lips that floats by on a canoe. Queries upon queries at the DMV. No one gets their license, everybody drives. Everybody comes home to that cushy setting, those candles that light the way to a warm swimming pool. The fireplace, the dog, everything that makes this a home. Clear blue skies and then marmalade fog. You don’t put on the windshield wipers, you lick your way through. You fatten, you slow down, you go blind, yet you’re there and who doesn’t dream of this so who are you to complain? There are other people in other realities. Their streets are made of asphalt, their fog is grey, their mountains can’t be eaten. So this must be better. This can’t be a cage. A golden cage, they say. Well who would care if its golden? Gold is valuable right? So you stay, thankful. You play your role. You feed off what you’re given and you pretend to be free. You pretend. So much is clear. But doesn’t everybody do that? You don’t want to be singled out. There’s safety in numbers. Other people have it worse. Crippled by their choices, not knowing what makes them happy. When they could simply obey. But they choose the hard life. How ridiculous, right? Pouring salt into their wounds. Choosing to see and not go blind. Choosing to breathe poisonous air, choosing to doubt what is. How foolish to doubt. How foolish to not choose comfort. Comfort above everything. One doesn’t want to stand out. Step out. Put your hands on the wall. Fall into sweet slumber, you’ll like it, it’s so… so light, yes so weightless, so barely existing. Yes, barely but still. Just sleep now, be still.

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