47.

The day hadn’t yet started, it was still creaking and stretching out the stiff stasis of the night, preparing to force itself on to daylight and drag us all into its patterns.

But something felt different this time. At least the delusion that something felt different did.

It wasn’t long until the singing of birds made me realise, once again, that we were all just lodgers-sleepwalking through a soon to be forgotten lie-tricked by ourselves into believing we mattered more than the unknown universe kept telling us.

What does it take to finally wake up to something other than more sleep?

There’s no answers in questions, but all we find is the uncertain conclusions that anxiety and pressure force.

Flames are predictable, they scold and they burn-but they also create a light we can’t turn away from.

Like a magnet they pull us in, again and again and we keep cremating our souls until we’ve melted away. Without knowing it, we’re all stalking our own suicide.

The day hadn’t started yet. But this time it felt different.

So I looked around it and went back to sleep.

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