asked not to run, not you, not run to the sheer and cemented place. where the walls cozy up, where exist hardly exists. that densely deep and stolid place, alive without fluctuation, hesitation. where there are no sudden smiles, sudden sighs. the place where “i love you” is a halloween night incantation. where you’ve gone, day, night both done in a sleep-seeming state. where dream is maintained by walls. the walls so cold that if touched burn flesh. walls that yield and then consume when hurled against. a place, floors above, that appears as dank and dark as a miner’s trap. you ran yourself to this place. where the satanic captain wears too many coats. and he is you.
