In the teacup of those that dream lies solitude, the many droplets that couple together in angst and confinement are all the joys and the sorrows that are needed for the preparation for living. An ecosystem of metric precision in solitude. The incivility of abstract nouns ebb amongst many an anxiety, amounts of effort, sustained and released to coincide with match stick dreams, and ties of burdensome weariness, many sew discouragement, distraction and fight or flight sweeping into solitude again. A den, opium and crusts to be cracked with the encompassing thoughts and illusions of the possibility, and manufactured dreams.
Our flesh, fingers and toes, ducts and core are merely prisons for our souls. Our skin blood and bone as much iron bars of confinement as an empty bottle or glass, a silhouette of ruptured superfluous regret. I will not fret, or fear, as all flesh will rott and decay, greet Death like the smoldering remenace and remembrance of the embers and stills of the day. Everything turns to ash and releases every soul.
Although, at times I am a wash with the strangest feeling when you are a distance away as you are at present, I feel empty, Completely decommissioned, like an unlocked and unlived in house, free for the taking, anyone or thing can trespass and time they like.