I listen to the sounds of my house.
I hear the clock, whose hands I have yet to change, knocking seconds off of my life and it doesn't care. Doesn't care about me at all. If time cared about me, I would be hunted and dead already for how I have wasted years.
I am careful to choose my words now. I don't like it that way.
I prefer to unroll my tongue like a burning ribbon.
I tolerate my censorship. I throw up my own walls. I am digging into my own for this newest haul.
I feel like Poe.
And I crawl.