Out my window I see wheelchairs and skateboards; stray cats and stray children. Down the lane babies dance behind a chain link fence, oblivious to the rolling engine that churns beneath their feet. In my little castle the off-white radiator squats like a cold beast while the wind buffets my leaky window. The days are short, but while they last the sun pours into my bedroom like glowing metal from the blacksmith's kiln.
The food is good here, but the music is better, and the wine - though bitter - is pleasant. The elephant continues to tromp over the starving east, and my mailbox bursts with propaganda. I used to fantasize that I'd end all of that, but now I see the tides that drag me, and I have no fight left for them.
I changed my name the other week and burned and buried much of the past. It fell from my shoulders like molted husk. One day, I'll mail my past to my future in hopes of curbing this destruction. This game is like a hurricane and has made me more aware of the currents that shape our lives then ever before. I fear that it is only from the loftiest precipice that one can understand what it means to fall.
So much for having nothing to lose eh?
Tell me a tale. I'm hungry for stories.