What is there left to do?

To run screaming into the void. To give last rites to the woman what gave birth to you. To eat from the fruit that grows in the garden of the Great Lake’s dragon king. Can you say that you will ever return from his garden? Did you know there lies one of the 5 gates? To never know the embrace of the walls when they contort themselves to brush against you, unseen. To never see the patterns in the floor jump up in anticipation of your gaze. To understand that God is God and man is man, fish is fish, relatable meme is relatable meme. Still, you gotta hand it to them. Still you gotta bring the fish to lunch or grandma will get mad. Still night, holy night. Your grandmother was still when you came to her room to say goodnight and for a moment you feared the worst. But it was not so, as nothing is. To be so is to be naught. To be so is to be so so deeply ingrained in the grooves between cells of bark climbing up the side of a tree like applause.

I hear the voice of Freud in my ear. He tells me to jump. I could’ve asked so many endless and repeating questions. Instead, I jump.

What is there left to do?

To break bread before and after bread is broken. To make offerings to the moon who hovers in her vast, cold covenant on the sliding surface between the phrases “like glass” and “as glass.” To sit a shining process before the judge and sentence by sentence build an execution. Every vocalization of reason is a tiny death sentence.

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