As the ribbons continue to strangle the gifts you’ve sent my way, your favorite flavors packed inside exudate from your world to mine through a hole none of us drilled. You can cry over the damaging hole, I will cry over the invasive truth.
Is there no looking-away from the scene under play? God knows I can’t stand any of it; the wrong flavor, the misguided flow, the metastasis of the mess and above all, my persistent being in an all-about-you air. Nobody’s going to sneak out though.
There will be survival crisis. There will be giving-up phases. There will be disconnections. Everything, there will be but ducking out; out of the camera-lights, despite the congestion, despite the suffocation.
“Battery full, please unplug,” my cell phone enlightens me: it’s the unplugging we fail to do.