Possible Coin

I look at my hands. Bathed in the sunlight, they look like statues, proportioned to no purpose.
A coin in my left I put in my right. I toss; I make it wind in air in a spiral course. Head or tail would be a disappointment, right? It would be disapproval from my chimera of my mind. It could land on the edge. It could be captured by a bird, an indoor bird. Gravity could cease to exist so it would never land at all. The bird would definitely land at some point. Optional by hitting a window and die like an estimated 100 million birds (in the US alone) do every year. So because of the stupid extension of windows that one would eventually aswell be a head or tail. Pity. Then I guess I go for the edgy edge one, for now.

I am here, alone, at the end of the world. I reach out and touch nothing.

Back. I remember now. You smelled like winter wind. That’s more than I could say about this room now. Where’s my bloody winter? The only remembrance of winter I have now is in a bottle in a cupboard in the toilet. And that is just a coupling to some core in my head. Given this context, old dreams can wait.

I could say, Goodbye Simone, but we fold like icicles on paper shelves so it would be a pity to appear that way.

Once again this chimera of my reality reassembles, this beautiful freakshow of mine, this glister of perception I couldn’t live without. And my mythology tells we would need a fucking winged horse to kill that. But Pegasus is fictional, right? There is no such thing as a white flying horse. We don’t believe in fictional creatures made up by some fella from southern Europe. Because it’s hot down there, people bath in sunlight, weird people. Give me my scissorhands! I need a Sad Song.

So I'm up at dawn, putting on my shoes. I just want to make a clean escape. I'm
leaving but I don't know where to. I know I'm leaving but I don't know where to.