Racing around picture frames; returns and echoed reflections. If I had a dollar for every mistake I repeated, this wealth would engulf my being. I say these words without a sound. Circling my skull and crashing against disappointments I’ve been holding, if only I’d let them crawl out of my mouth. Fingers tremble against cold concrete. I hold my face there. I stare into the lines, the cracks, the semi-permanence. Blades of grass shooting up from beneath. Internally screaming to be seen. My eyes won’t divert and for once I don’t feel so alone.