"Everything's a disappointment," you're on the chair tilted backwards with your lips pouting forward. "Like life is an over exaggerated dream, like love is an over exaggerated scheme."
Windows slip open and welcome the wandering air into their arms, it is the only welcome this room will feel all day; it is the only object of our charms. It is the only feeling that will not stay. For a moment we all stood staring as the green leaves, brown dust and grey silt moved their way toward the floor, and you made a move so daring my eyelashes retreated. You moved toward the door, as though the hollow brick wasn't soothing and the interior was starting to exhaust. When comfort is so easy, who would think of moving? (All you've ever done should have been lined with remorse). "Don't let this room restrict you, don't let this be your bed. Don't let the shattered grey-blue sky climb all over your head. If you've been taught to follow the pattern of cement, then follow the pattern of grass." And you put your hand on the door handle as it bent, and revealed a shattered heart.
The resolution was void, your foot could not move toward the green. Your voice was frayed and challenging, "this is why everything is nott what it seems. This is how you people make a living, it's how you read the tide, it's how you make money deciphering the wrong in what we hide. I'm doing this for humanity, for humility and for insanity. If you see me again it will be surreal, but don't cry or it will seem too real."
