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small town endlessWhen I first arrived
In town I thought
It's very small
Compared to where
I came from. Friends
Would meet randomly
On the streets.
It is dusk and
The horizon expands
The town with its
Turns into a maze.
Now that I have
Met you that night
And still not run
into you again,
The town becomes
Too big it seems
cafe epiphanyI walked into a cafe, ordered the usual and idled away. All of a sudden there's this strange feeling welled up: I no longer had this vector in front of me, the vector of going somewhere, pointing from the back where I came and ahead where I was going. Instead, my vector imitated the shape of the window, or became the window itself, no longer piercing forward, but dispersed everywhere on the screen.
Unlike the long one dashing through the three dimensions (or four including time) in pushing oneself forward, it followed the passer-bys. It became short, ephemereal, almost two-dimensional. Instead, I became the one who observed the long vectors of intentionality of the commuters. After a while, the crisscrossed lines turned chaotic I had to close my eyes.
I found the feeling stirred in me very peculiar. It reminded me of something, something frightful and homely at the same time. It uncannily revealed to me that I had comfortably arrived, that I had stopped. Only temporarily, to be sure, b
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
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