Staring at the ceiling. The fan whirling. Sunlight painting the curtains in red. Red blinking on the digital clock that hangs beside the toilet. Listening to an old voice. Listening to no voice. Listening. My fingers are all bent, like I am transforming into a new creature. But I am not. Looking at the cold red blanket covering my legs, my cock, my waist. Listening again to an old voice. Nothing painful, just the usual blabbering. Nothing serious. Nothing. Feeling my legs heavy. It’s because of the walk I took this morning. Listening to the pressure cooker whistle. Again. Again. And again. One more time. It keeps whistling. I lose track of count. Something so stubborn must be boiling inside. Time doesn’t exist when I write. Everything is here and forever. Nothing dies.
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