055: I could write about a lot of things

Rain, again—wandering into the cracks in my consciousness, lingering till I give it a name.

Missing dancing so much it hurts, but when I try to go back my limbs touch the walls of this room and the flame dies out in silence.

Worry, a dart, a sickness. A fog over bright moons.

Night, not my friend nor my enemy. I’m immune to it as it is to me. Every 24 hours we meet, play some cards. Whoever wins wins and that’s it till tomorrow, when we start again.

100: some days too much.
Some days not nearly enough.