Still still ill
The canopy shielded me from being drenched by the little drizzles from the French sky, closer than I could be to hoping that it would wash the selfsame scars. Limping like a little bitch even with a cane on, and the hand that holds it now sparkles with copper that it was made of. A tiny bench of whoop-dee-doo to sleep on before the sun arrives, giving me enough room to think of where next to be, yet all that came after where pocket nightmares of fast-forwards. Next was the worst of the bunch. Tenements of Soviet build, targeted by Soviet arms, of ever frightful heights and hopeless goings-on. Not a prim way to exist by any means. Yet there I am wishing I was never there. But I had to, because it was the only thing grounding me to the earth. The feeling of death just outside the window, always disappointing, and not the ways one thought, for I was hoping it be my penance then and there. Then we collide, back to scorched earth once again. Race to another fucking moot goal. Michelin dream...