a picture frame removed from a wall displays an achingly clean departure from the grime that embraces everything that belongs and never leaves.
the atmosphere was the husk of a cicada, violently empty and gutless, and it was easy to integrate myself into the flock of victims that were baby birds with mouths gaping for your presence. i treated sleep like a criminal for 24 hours that bred within themselves to create an eternity that ended anticlimactically: you went home. but the dust never managed to invade your wallspace, so i just filled the cicada's shell with indifference and wondered how far your legs are going to carry you next time.