to whose story would i be addicted. not to mine for sure. for i plead to break out of it every single day. i want to be let out and i want to be me. but then the me is my story too. it is my belief. a prose frankly is not exactly the me that i want to or tend to describe. for then that is always me. a me to be. a me i want to be. i me may be i shall never be.

i run after the sand in a storm. i rig the bills of a dinner i never ate. i sit aside in the warmth of the fire and yet i don't bake. the muffin i had just bitten. a letter i had just written. the words would rebound. the echo that had never lived. the echo who dies amid. i wish the surface was larger, the sound louder than the game. i wish i had prayed harder or at least bent the ground.