112. a million miles away.


The door swings open, a slight creak drawing my eyes towards it. That door always opens. The hinges, the doorknob, something is subtly off. Of course, it has to be the bathroom door. As a result, every time I try and take a bath in peace, the cat will wander in. Brushing my teeth, washing my face, the door comes ajar once again, slowly but surely opening all the way. Memory’s funny, a scent a sight a flashback ensues.

I remember my aunt. She opens a door, then holds it open rather than just heading in. After a second or two, she goes in herself. One day, I asked her why. She responded, “to let the angels in first”. I accepted this. I wonder if she’s still letting in angels.

Something steady and tired and pained wants to cry, and reprimanding it does nothing. Time to go back to the nonexistence of school. Write the essays for college, and find the address book I have lost. I need to write nonsense letters to wicked, wonderful people, happy and frustrated and sad and lazy. People make all of this worth a lot more.

I don’t want to touch millions of lives. I won’t sign the goddam legacy shit. I slept through your presentation, and probably got more out of it. I want to live and have shit experiences and amazing ones, thanks. And the hands thing just got creepy after it was stressed too much.

Finally, dear weather, either snow like you mean it or cut it out.


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