Slowly crawling out of the ditch. It’s been an eon since the sun stumbled out of the sky. It’s still open: the horizon, Pandora’s box, the wounds. One moment it’s balloons and the next, it’s razors. Yet there is a clearing out there beyond the feral stare of unwelcome. Shivering in the mourning haze, the dream has been uprooted. The details, however, become more lucid as the hot water slowly turns cold. A pale chill of unease is emitted from the empty furniture. Nobody inhabits this place anymore. The mansion at the top of the hill is sheltered by the enormous tree that stands proudly in front of it, but shelter, above the eternal pangs of wasting time, is the true denominator missing from the equation.
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