Walking down the road of what used to be hope, and inspiration, but what is now nothing more than an abysmal canyon whose prickly labyrinth walls I cannot seem to muster the brawn to climb over or run through.
I've seen this shrub before, thrice. Look at it, lessening into further darkness with each beat of a broken wing. I am forever set in this ritual purgatory. A separate state of consciousness unlike that of a recreational high.

A blade swims across marble, hitting snags at semi-frequent intervals. Strawberry thick streaks rushing across to the finish line, steady as she goes.

Gliding through a meadow of friendly daffodils and happy ticks marveling foolishly at how far they run, oblivious to the one-way mirror they have their Porky Pig noses turned up at. Icy harsh beads of green stabbing my face with every staggering breath.