I force myself to step outside onto the porch for a moment
To remember what fresh air tastes like,
And when I do,
I see that the trees are made out of clay
Modeled to near perfection but just off-right
And the sun is a flashlight someone set to hang from a domed glass ceiling
The lighting on the stage dialed to dismal but not quite dead
I'm breathing, I think, but it seems all too effortless to really be me
The people and things around me and myself all prop pieces in a play that may never have existed.