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Out of context: Reply #6577
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- kelpie0
sometimes at night, when the train has gone past my window for the sixth or seventh time and I'm sitting in front of my typewriter looking for a spoon cos I ran out of kit-kats, and the boredom seems to creep up my skin like so many ants carrying leaves to pack into my skull, till I can't even think of the word sleep let alone feel its soft embrace, I get a feeling like I'm outside the building trying to find a crack in teh perfect sandstone walls, trying to locate a hidden way to get back to somewhere I used to be, where the sun shone on our faces and she would smile and the whole world was for that moment with in the reach of outstretched arms, only now when I reach out, all that comes to my shaking fingers is the cold iron touch of this cage around my soul, a cage I made for myself that night, the night I should have simply walked away, the night that will forever leave its mark upon me. I call her name, sometimes, but the words are weak and cannot penetrate the vaile of stubborn memories that wraps around my life.
Also, sometimes I have this really annoying itch above the small of my back, and the largest spoon I have in the house only gets about an inch above it.
that's also a bitch.