You Mighta Been Right About that Wheelchair, Creep.

The brain is runRUNrunning away. From you. From me. To a mouse in a house. Some cowgirls like me go out like that: RUNning. And still here I am...just as I was then. A year or so ago. A year or more so. The more or the less I know not. The happy or sad I do not see. Drowning as I float on, ok.
    ok. OK. ok? Niente. Nunca. For it was not the heart that failed. Carries on and on it does, just ever so more faded and jaded. If failure needs a culprit, look no further. This world and all that I dream could be so. Blame is the name of this game and every player loses holdings for the bold things and old things.
It saves me as it betrays me.

A week away and the only comfort is not to be found. Not in the shower. Not in that cupcake. Not even in the deepest of deep heartwarming and breaking exchanges.

It will start and end as it always will be....with me. Trapped in this liberation, I have no choice save move. At a sprint.