The Clockwork Wings (of Week and Weekend)

Everything is always just about to begin.

Soil down a mountain, habit and routine.

You become a ghost.

Soil down a mountain, habit and routine.

You go out for no other reason than to get drunk and lash your tongue, soil down a mountain, habit and routine, dance like an ass, wake up the next morning, deny unease.

Soil down a mountain, habit and routine.

‘Tonight I am going out tonight to drink myself to…’ Floating, barely scraping the surface of the day. Fingers like mist. Eyes, ears, nose, inhibition, all mist. The mist swept in across town, the city, obscuring the view.

Soil down a mountain, habit and routine.

‘A coping mechanism. A device… for survival.’

Soil down a mountain, habit and routine.

The lazy flame at the bottom of a candle, couldn’t give a fuck anymore if the wick finished and the spark departed.

Soil down a mountain, habit and routine.

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