chicken and rice in some sort of paste, tomato, I’ll decline the wine but
the coffee in pentagon pots has a 50-50 shot. I’m trying to capture
2 weeks on scribbled yellow pages and ignore the rest of my brownie
that must have a whole canister of coca and all I can think,
as we bounce about in small spheres of space, is would death be instantaneous if
the exit door opened or would I have a moment to fly among the ice
and lands of white? A moment to regret everything I
have done (there are more locked doors in my memory
palace than open) and haven’t done?
I’m already regretting not taking the coffee.
I’d much rather fly away.