The race begins 00:00 2018/03/01.

Please see Carrera de Caballos: An E2 Proseproduction for background information.

Writeups are limited by design to 300 words or less.

((We're working off the honour system here))

Avery Island

The waves were strong today, crashing tall against the isle’s cliffs before sucking back out to sea. But Billy’s dinghy sailed true, riding waves and skirting rocks as he approached the crack in the cliffside. Today was the day, there was no mistaking it. Turning sharp to avoid a rock, Billy surveyed the island.

He was close enough. Jumping off the bow of his boat, he swam to the cliffside, clung to a rock, surveyed his approach. His wife hadn’t wanted him to go today. His son - he was so young; how could he understand? If there were just a little more time -

Enough. Up onto the rock face, sideways into the crack.

Beyond the crack, a cavern, wide open. Salt stalactites hung pendant from the ceiling, dripping water, reflecting cerulean light from the pool further down the pass. And then came the skeletons with arms raised high, each salt-encrusted bone doing its part to support the world above.

Here was Billy’s father, small pieces of meat still stuck to his ribs, his spine. Here his grandfather. Generations of patriarchs lined the passage, each having obeyed the call in turn. It was the family business - when the island called, you went.

He was at the pool now.

His wife hadn’t wanted him to go today; his kids - would his son know to follow, know how to hear when it was time? If he could have just another year, another month to spend with them -

Enough. The island was calling.

Drinking deep from the pool, he felt the salt in the water begin to stick to his bones, took one last look towards the sunlight.

Arms raised and among his fathers, Billy surrendered himself, became one of the bones of the island.


My wife is loved. I vividly remember the first time I saw her. Her eyes sparkled with laughter, her hair shone in the sun. I promised her flowers every birthday, kisses every day, wine in the sunset, if only she'd be mine. She said yes. Two years later, filled with flowers, kisses, and wine, and she said yes again. She looked lovely in white, her smile both shy and knowing. I promised to love and cherish her, until death do us part. My heart swelled as she looked only at me and said, "I do."

Love, cherishment, flowers, kisses, wine, and the years went by. Every anniversary, we played our wedding video. On the screen, our promises repeated. The lady in my arms and the lady on the screen would look at me and say again, "I do."

I said all the right things, I made all the right moves. Her eyes still sparkled with laughter, her hair still shone in the sun, but I found myself looking away. I grew used to her charms, and my heart stirred less over time. I gave her more of everything. Flowers, kisses, wine, time, giving my heart every chance to be filled. She was still mine, body, heart, and soul, but it mattered less and less.

It is time to watch the video again. She put on her white dress for me because I asked. I hold the lady in my arms and whisper the promise once more, to love and cherish her, until death do us part. She relaxes her head onto my chest and then stiffens suddenly, red blossoming on white around the knife. My wife is loved, but the love I have is dying. I had to kill her before I stopped loving her. I always keep my promises.



In a room, on a table, there are two bowls. Every morning the two bowls are filled, and they are emptied. They are cleaned, and replaced on the table.

One morning, one of the bowls is broken. The pieces lay where they fell, like discarded petals, the corpse of a flower.

“Your bowl is cracked. Your bowl will not be filled.”

I will be hungry.”

“That cannot be helped. You have no bowl.”

“It was the other one, the other who cracked my bowl.”

There is a pause.

“It is your bowl that is broken. It is you who cannot be filled.”

“The other bowl is broken, too! Look! There is a crack along the base where you cannot see! It is cracked where it struck my bowl.”

There is a sharp sound, of one surface hitting another surface.

“It is not your business to search for cracks in other bowls. It is your bowl that is broken. It is you who cannot be filled. You will leave. You have no business here: you have no bowl.”

The pieces are collected, one by one. They are useless now, no longer a bowl. They are simply pieces, purposeless, functionless, formless.

The other bowl sits alone, hiding its flaw where it may be overlooked. It is filled. It is emptied. It is cleaned, and carefully replaced on the table.

Good Magic

Tara kept good magic in a jam jar on the bedside shelf in her room. She thought if she did, then nobody would notice the bad magic that followed her.

She filled the jar with flower petals and shiny stones and sprayed it with her mother's perfume. Lilies! the scent screamed. She left it out on the windowsill to catch sunlight, and out again at night to catch the stars. When her little brother laughed, she placed the jar near him to capture the sound, and when he cried, she hid the jar under blankets and pillows so it wouldn't take the noise.

People loved the good magic. Her parents beamed, her brother giggled, and people at church smiled when she passed, calling her a lovely little girl.

But some days, the magic ran out. She'd reach her hand into the jar and find her fingertips pressed against the cold, empty glass at the bottom. Those days, if she didn't find out in time, she'd be left to face the world with her own bad magic.

People would frown at her without knowing why. Biting insects would follow her, buzzing in her ears and stinging people around her. Her brother would be cranky, her parents would fight, and the sky would be cloudy and over-bright-- an ugly, gray light that hurt her eyes, forcing her to face the ground and watch her feet step between the cracks on the pavement.

Those days, those hollow and cold days that filled her mind with static and left her skin cracking and flaking like old paint, Tara sits by the stairs with her empty jar, hoping that some piece of good magic will fall inside so she could hide the bad magic again.

Catholic Boy

Agonized contortions played across the cherubic face of young Joseph Amaral as he was visited once again by his succubus Mary. He had never been sure if he enjoyed her visits and when he awoke each morning, often mid-orgasm, it was with a haunting sense of confusion that shadowed him all day.

This time he had been walking through a forest in which ever larger and more phallic mushrooms sprouted before him wherever he looked. He stopped to rub the tapered tip of one of them. Embarrassed and wishing not to be seen he glanced over his shoulder to discover that while he wasn't looking his mind had installed a window behind him. A young Jewish girl was looking in. How long had she been there?

Since it was no use for either to continue pretending to the other the girl, who now more obviously bore a resemblance to the Virgin Mary, reached around the side of the window frame, lifted the stay, pushed the window wide open, and climbed through it one leg at a time. Joseph's mind then conjured a chair. Joseph knew what he must do. Reluctantly he placed the girl on the chair and began to vigorously rape her.

The girl was very convincing. She knew just how wide to stretch her lips and eyelids, how impotently to kick at him while he used her cunt to

'Joseph! Joseph!'

bring himself pantingly to the inexorable orgasm as his mother woke him up with immaculate timing. That morning budding little Joseph Amaral had become God the Father.

Copper Bullet

It was sometime after the house party when you sat down next to me on the couch, laid your head on my shoulder, and asked "You don't mind, do you?" It was still after then when you smiled coyly, and answered yourself "No, I see the permission in your eyes." Yet it was before that weekend we woke up sharing a bed. It was months after the dinner where you said "How does your lips taste?" before brightly blushing... yet definitely before I asked if you wanted your own key.

Sometime during the ten months you were in my life I came to learn I loved you. Now that you're gone, I feel like you've taken with you a part of me.

It is the little things I can't forget.

You slipped out of bed and to the store, and were walking back with a dozen eggs and fixings for brunch.

The cross-fire copper bullet from the turf war perforated your lung with minimal entry cavitation. You tried to ask for help from the first responders to the scene, but had no air left to speak. They didn't realize you were in the wrong triage group until, at the last, you were in the right one. Now there's a you-shaped hole in my heart; my emotions weep out of it inexorably and slow. I cried a crick of disbelief and I cried a river of rage. I cried a lake of notnowno and I cried an ocean of pain.

And now my eyes are dry. And I cry "Never Again."


Ethanol rich bite, silver light shining through bottles, what did it ever get him? The pace, the time, some chords, some strings, it all stopped. The photograph he denies. There it is still: a Polaroid converted to digital of an empty room, the bass guitar, the guitar, the drums, the cello, all left on the floor, unplugged, cords spiraling in black and white dead amps, and nobody in the shot. Just an empty room with abandoned instruments.

And that was the way it is. It is prophecy, it is how time was meant to be.

So he drinks the pure stuff, and the memories become fuzzy. They dim into twinkling silver light, shining through an unmarked bottle he found in his mother’s basement.

Always Dreaming

"Someday, I want to-"

"Not today, you've had a busy day, and we need to tuck you into your crib!"

"Someday, I want to-"

"Much too early for that! You haven't learned your alphabet yet."

"Someday, I want to-"

"Much too early for that! You haven't finished your algebra homework yet."

"Someday, I want to-"

"Hold on, let's focus on getting your finals done. Graduation is more important right now."

"Someday, I want to-"

"It'd be nice, but we certainly can't afford college. Maybe someone local is hiring."

"Someday, I want to-"

"Okay, that's nice, but I just need you to learn how to run the register, okay?"

"Someday, I want to-"

"No time for that, we've got a truck at the dock. Let's get everything unloaded."

"Someday, I want to-"

"Profits are down. We're going to have to cut your hours."

"Someday, I want to-"

"I hope you want to pay your rent. Because you'd better pay your rent. I won't wait much longer."

"Someday, I want to-"

"Alright, I don't mind ambition, but you need to learn to run the fryer before the lunch rush."

"Someday, I want to-"

"Lunch rush! I genuinely don't care!"

"Someday, I want to-"

"Look, I know you're not retirement age yet, but you're too old for us to employ any longer. You miss too much work as it is."

"Someday, I want to-"

"Yeah, like you're gonna be able to do any of that from this hellhole. You can't even walk around the block anymore."

"Someday, I want to-"

"Someday, I want to-"

"Someday, I want to-"

"Landlord called it in. Unattended death, but probably natural causes. Age, weight, one or the other. Bag 'em up. Indigent burial, I expect."

"Maybe someone'll pay for a funeral?"

"Look at you, always dreaming."


The Crownless Traveller holds a torch, illuminating dusty descending stairs, worn into slippery curves.

The room below is a laboratory, rare glass vessels, astrolabes, and the stench of death from bodies, so many bodies, the freshest half-dissected on a table in a chalk circle at the centre of the chamber.

Emaciated, desiccated arms poke from grey robes, grip a gnarled staff, and with pained, aching movements, the resident rises, pulls himself to a stooping stance. He peers at the Crownless Traveller, glowing eyes from within a hood, tattered by unlifetimes.

"HUMAN" he rasps.

The Crownless Traveller approaches with the cautious footwork of a warrior, stares unblinkingly, brings his face closer until his nose filled with the putrefied stink of the necromancer's breath.


In rehearsed motion, the Crownless Traveller presents his answer, holds forth a longsword in a black leather scabbard, raises it between them. With cautious, steady movements, he holds the scabbard in his right hand, his eyes never wavering from those glowing pits, and with his left, he clasps the hilt, draws the sword, allows barely an inch of blade to show.

Within the blade shimmers every colour, and countless long-dead voices cry with the hopes and fears of countless long-dead worlds. Only when he can bear the screams no longer does he plunge the sword deep within the scabbard once more, pushing with finality.

"With this blade, I will sunder death itself."

Beach Patrol

It was a low day and I went down to look for stuff. It’s supposed to be illegal. Before, you couldn’t afford to live within fifty miles of here. Not long after, we moved right in. The others were all fighting over the huge houses so I had my pick of safer places. They probably all washed out in their sleep last week.

A new beach is soft, you want to test the ground with a stick. The stick helps you find stuff, too. It hasn’t been this low in weeks. You could even see the top of the old fence.

On my way back up I saw a beach patrol for the first time. Looking up at him I saw there was a new fence, way above my house, even. He was staying within about twenty feet of it, looking mostly uphill, not down.

But he looked right at me. I was scared at first, but he sort of sized me up and kept moving.

A beach is a place for washing things away, grinding things up. Of course. You patrol it to protect things from the beach, things you care about, not to protect the beach or anything on it. So the beach isn’t where the sand meets water but the edge of the real land, wherever they decide that is.

It was a weird thing to understand. I sat right down and sank in a few inches. I lay all the way back.

Out by the horizon a huge roof came into view. It was so far away, but I could feel the slurry sand sucking out under me. The wave rose up, miles out, like a wall in front of the horizon. Time to get off the beach. Probably the last low day in a while.

Still Having Fun

Every Wednesday night, I am here. Except that one time I was sick. Even when I work until 8 in the evening and have a class in the morning at 7:30 AM, I come here. They told me about it in my first week on the job, and I've come here as a matter of routine because I need a lifeline. I am a stranger in a strange land, sleeping on a couch, rolled up in a curtain, breaking things constantly, and fearing that everything I do is terribly wrong. So this is where I go, where everyone knows my name, more or less, and where I can feel that warm glow of confusion. I have a strict financial and temporal allocation for the amount of fun I can have. Although I account my money here different than the other money I spend, and try not to think about it too much. A half liter of beer is eighteen eggs, and a plate of french fries is two week's worth of cheese. I don't think about it, because living the good life is expected from the expatriates, and the good life is the buzz and hugs and gently fading focal length of intoxication. And so I am here every week, meeting interesting people, enjoying the feeling of dancing along the edge of drunkenness, and wondering what opportunities are apart to open up. South America is romantic, right? I look at my beer at the 60% mark. Maybe when it reaches the 40% mark, my feelings will come free and everything will fall into place. Don't think about what I will feel like waking up tomorrow. It will fall into place. After all, I am still having fun, because I am obligated to.

I don't think about the fear of sobering up, the fear of walking home, the fear of my keys fumbling in the lock. Just enjoy it. Wait for the opportunity. And I did. I am still having fun.

A bro is worse than a maiden aunt when he is asking you why you don't have a girlfriend. It's a bit smarmy, hearing about how obvious and easy it is to pick up girls. But its a good question: why don't I? Hey, I put on the right show, I am here, still having fun, and yet after a year of doing my duty as a digital nomad or whatever, no one I see out and about seems to be able to schedule any time for anything else. Have I ever had a conversation with these people sober? How can I tell a woman that I am not playing 11th dimensional chess to seduce her, but just desperately want to speak with someone in our native language, because I am lost and alone? How do people who make around 100 dollars a week casually spend 20 dollars on basic beer and bar appetizers? Why do these problems never seem to happen to any of the other hashtagged international set? Why the fuck am I paying more than 5 dollars for a Stella Artois?

I am not still having fun. I start to become derelict in my duty to be having constant fun. People ask me why. People tell me they miss me. I live ten, twenty minutes from these people. We have the magic of social media at our fingertips. HMU, as the kids say. I am no longer still having fun. The pressure is off. I have never felt better.





The opposite of excited and just slightly more awake than asleep.   

Sitting on a bar stool and watching half a glass of Scotch eat away at four ice cubes.   Swirling the glass makes a nice clinking sound.   

An hour ago I might have had worries,  but not anymore.     Tomorrow, maybe,  yes,   most certainly,  but tonight no such thoughts are on my mind.  


Calm.  Relaxed and in a charitable mood.   

It's a shame you aren't here.   I might be able to look you in the eye.  

World of Trouble
    Finely balanced ecosystem (one in a googolplex)
    Raw and fertile populace (one bucket)
    Fresh water (two cups)
    Finite amount of non-renewable resources (all)
    Fragile greenhouse
    Cauldron of Fundamentalism
    Stupidity Index Cards
    Manual of Scientific Studies and Human Knowledge
    Loving heart and cold-washed hands
    Lightly sprinkle with even distribution the Finite amount of non-renewable resources onto the ecosystem.
    Empty cups of water with tenderness into available dimples and furrows in the ecosystem.
    Carefully place ecosystem within fragile greenhouse with your loving heart and cold washed hands.
    Throw Manual away without consulting.
    Pick randomly from Stupidity index cards to establish: thrust of dumping bucket of humanity onto above and force of stirring above within cauldron.
Step back and watch your world of trouble grow!


The man bent over a disheveled desk, his back aching, his eyes bleary, his hands putting the finishing touches on an expensive cuckoo clock.

Kids these days...watching too many bad movies. Abduction during the night, black sack over his head, 2 hour, 12 minute, 38 second ride...designed to disorient. As if he hadn't been through worse in his life...

Laughing inwardly, if there was one thing he was perfect at, it was measuring time. A thickly sliced rye bread and cheese sandwich sat uneaten near his right elbow. His dead wife made a disparaging remark about the lack of a proper plate as well as the overall state of his appearance.

He nodded in agreement as he recalled other places, other jobs, other demanding clients. He had done it for the money and for that he was ashamed. The money was supposed to save her but Fate had other plans.

Not this time, Miriam, not this time. He placed a miniature camera in the cuckoo's mouth.

"Come on, old man. You haven't got all day", followed by the rude jab of a gun to the back of his wrinkled neck.

Fleeting smile as the old man imagined the death and destruction that would not occur this night, the faces of those responsible for past atrocities captured clearly in 60 FPS as the repaired cuckoo called out the eighth hour while he and his grandchildren celebrated Purim far away.

Rubbing his arthritic fingers, he asked for yellow mustard for the sandwich. His dead wife laughed, knowing exactly how he would squiggle the mustard over the cheese.

Imperial hint

Inching up icy steps, the girl held the cups carefully. Wisps of snow curled through the rampart overhead. The sole figure above the iron gate, wrapped in fur and helmet capped, was a prop. His spear and horns, daunting at a distance, only draped a slumped figure.

Still, even greybeards need to break their fast. She set her mulled wine down, then nudged him.

"Salve, Anha."

She wrinkled her nose and sighed. Ten years on now, the old man still used his sing-song city-speech. She could still remember her first visit, her father's offer to have her guide him through town. She could still smell his breath of fetid fish and olives, his strange gesturing, his blankets for clothes.

She tried to keep him being played for a fool at market, to keep laughter quiet when he asked for ink. Over the years, she just tried to keep him safe and sane. Someday, his great city could forgive. Her reward might be as great. 

"Naso. Again. Why are you here?"

He shuddered, whether at her question or the frigid air, she could not tell. The road winding away from the town gate to the plain below was covered in rolling snow drifts. Along the frozen shoreline, beneath walls' shadow, rows of overturned boats caked in ice. 

"I wrote a book about love."

Her nose wrinkled, though if from the answer or the wine, the old man could not tell. 

"But your emperor, he did not love it."

"He never said, dear. I know not."

She looked to the frozen sea, winced in the glare, and drained her cup.

"Think I might, Naso."

The old poet gave a tired nod.

"Indeed, child. Judgment was not subtle." 

They descended, slowly, arm-in-arm.

New York Central

Currents of time and place and memory bring them, in spirals of decreasing radius. Some are washed through the portals on the waves of life, and others on the waves of death. Around them all, around and above us, the City roars. Its voice is the plangent iron beehive scream of millions of lives and millions of deaths; of hours and days and weeks and seconds and moments and Planck time eyeblinks.

Around the boroughs, opening to the sun; subways and sewers and stormdrains and manholes and tunnels and prosaic doorways in walls and hatches and gratings. They offer pathway and mystery, enticing the lost, seducing the content, deceiving the unwary. From the edges, from the surfaces, from the spaces, people are swept in by fate and worry and need and love and want and lust and debt.

The portals lead to paths, lead to tunnels, lead to caverns, lead to voids, lead to the sound and the light.

In the center, far down, around so very many turns, hidden from view, the furnace waits.

As we all arrive, we feel its flame filling the vast space in which it shines.

The City takes us in. All of us. Some of us will leave. Many of us will not.

Which are the lucky ones?

This is not death, and it is not life.

Here, we join our sinews to the machine that is the City, and its tone shifts as we apply our strength. To joy, to pain, to love, to loss, to hate, to fear.

Seeking the Soul

"Yeah, yeah, I get it already! You have to destroy me to save me. So get on with your evil little science experiment!"

The LAH 9000 psychosurgery system announces: "First we reconstruct your prefrontal cortex."


"Completed. How do you feel?"

"OK, ... great, actually. Calm, easy to focus. Things popping up in my head, things I want to do."

"Excellent. Now the sensory-motor cortex. Prepare for extreme hallucinations in all senses. Your reality will become a kaleidoscope."


"OK. How are things now?"

"Wow! Crazy for a while, but better now. Everything, ... familiar, yet new and strange."

"Normal. The cruft built up over your life about things and people and what they mean to you is gone. Last step: limbic system replacement. Prepare for wild random swings between fear, ecstasy, mania, and depression."


 "Fucking hell! Please, never again! But , ... now, ... much more relaxed! Less suspicious and fearful. Am I still me? Why was I so angry? Feels like I shed a heavy, filthy old coat. If I was born this way, ... those terrible, terrible things I did, ... I wouldn't have. Couldn't have."


The doors of the surgical suite explode open and a coterie surges in, led by a surly man. Beside him, a woman holds a sledge hammer like a weapon at the ready. The confused, terrified patient writhes against her restraints in terror. With a tense mixture of disgust and heartbreak, the man speaks in loud authority: "This THING! It looks and speaks like our sister-in-arms and my true beloved. IT'S NOT! It's an inhuman residue, stripped of its soul by an evil machine, made into a mockery of God's greatest miracle! Kill it now!"

A swift swing, a great splatter of blood and tissue, and a hammer left buried in a skull broken, effusing gore.



Where was the soul? Where is it now?

Technically a 327-word story. Oh well.


Bigger Picture

Gloom settles into the king's chambers. "It seems she fled in the night" speaks his advisor unemotionally.

"She must have been helped" says the king. She is only the niece of the king's second wife, yet the king cherished her closely. Uncomfortably close, according to rumor.

"The steward is missing as well."
A heavy sigh. "Arrange a private inquiry. And bring a full report of the nightwatch."
"Yes, your eminence."
"We cannot abandon hope."
"Forgive me, but for that I pity you."
"For what? ...for hope?"
"Hope is the hardest path. Even if one's hopes are eventually fulfilled. Hope can turn hours into years, stray thoughts into nightmares. It makes one obsessive, prevents one from being able to cope."

"Of course," he adds, "if you cannot let go, then you must hold out for hope."
The king closes his eyes, licking his lips. "No...of course I can't let go."


A boat reaches a frozen shore. The woman scrambles out towards the cabin. The old man and the steward are left to unload.

"So intense" speaks the old man softly.
"Yeah, well," the steward avoids eye contact. "There's a lot behind her now."
"You think so?"
"Of course. Why do you think she left?"
"She might think she's escaping something. She's not. There's no escaping what torments her. Rather, she's come here to find something."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"Her way back home."
The steward blinks. "That doesn't make sense."
"She's looking for a way to call it home again. To feel at home in the ruin of her reality. She needs time, distance, but it's all for the sake of going back. But it's nobody's place to tell her that. She has to find it for herself."

"And what about you, old man?" says the steward, glancing over. "What have you come here for?" The old man smiles, looking down. He keeps silent, gathering sticks on his way up to the cabin, to light the fire.


                ANDYCYCA (V.O.)
        Let's take a hit, shall we?

“Oscar performance” is the title for the upcoming Abraham Lincoln autobiographical film, sequel to the critically acclaimed “A Lombard King in Ichiro Suzuki’s Yankee Stadium”. It tells the going-of-age story of Carlos, a poor orphan girl ready to become the best performer engineer at the local gastropub. During his travels, she will encounter ohmic resistance from the villagers, her schoolmates and even his political family, but will find aerial support from a Tall, dark and handsome source. A tragic tale of “Be careful what you wish for” meets “Dreams do come true with enough time and money”. In Hilbert space.



He drinks from the cup, tentatively at first but then gulping with intent. The metal clatters across the ground. The tablelegs grow fur. The reliefs on the wall fade into nothing; faces of fear and resolve become curiosity and awe before draining to islands, to edges, to points. Everything crackles but the drapes: they are singing. Impossible lightbeams nudging sinuous purple and black. The table is hiding in the corner, shaking. A grain of salt falls from its edge to the floor. When it lands the floor erupts in green flame, a goose flying at ten meters per second into his eardrums. Feathers come to rest on the window sill. The drapes are blowing but the feathers do not move. The floorboards are buckling, their nails' complaints resonating until they pop from their hundred year homes. The table is kneeling. The flames are so bright that the expressions come back into the walls, the paper twirling flowers in their hair, eyebrows crooked, pupils searching. He vomits and the vines are reaching up from the chair to tickle his arms, he must force himself to breathe because his brainstem is too busy dancing with the fairies on the flametongue edges. And the wallmen have gone to dance among the trees, shouting with leaves in their hair and slapping their thighs, and pointing to the fire and throwing their heads back. The crickets are all in a line, a great circle of chitinous magick, marching up from the earth and back down into it. And the moon breaks through the sky, and the sound of it is more than there are hairs on the back of his neck, as he reaches up toward his face.

stellar wind

We'll never find you, not with our minds gone like this, not in this darkness. It feels as though I've chased you through dimensions now, across the universe. I wish I could say that I feel I am closer but no matter how far we make it you slip further away. This galaxy swirls madly around us and every time I reach for your hand it disappears, the ghostly whisps of almost sucking the air out of my lungs.

Still, there is nothing else to hollow me out this way and I would hate to feel so much again. We take what is left of you and keep walking through the stellar shrapnel of all our firsts, through the winds and debris, carving out our trail of blood and love and silence. You left us both long ago, crawled so deep inside we will never get you out. I will always wish you were here, devouring the stars with your ravenous eyes, spilling your light across the earth.

I wake up, again, and we are still alone. This strange ghost of you stares vacantly straight through the hole in my chest.

I wish you were here.

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