Sunday, September 28, 2008

A Dry Dream of Me.

I'm in the desert and my arm is under a rock and I have a knife and I know if I don't do something I'll die - but the way it is now, I can't do it, I can't do it, I mean is it mad, is it insane to press my lips to the salt of the rock and say, you've really got a hold on me rock, and I must admit it only hurts when I start to wriggle, when I change position, so well hey, I guess out here is as good a place as any, and the sand starts to boil beneath me and my skin sticks to the rock and we become one, the Rock and...

No, that's not it.

It's -

just before I die, my eyes locked upon it, the rock rolls away, and I am too weak now to follow it.

So I die alone in the desert, looking at myself reflected, in the clean blade of the knife.

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