Why is it I stand on no precipice? Why is it that everything is louder and more metallic than is necessary? That the air takes on a tin flavor when recycled, a taste not unlike a 9v tracing my tastebuds, or a snakebite coursing through capillaries.
Let the rain be soft, and the grasses long and warm. I want to nestle, to slumber, basking. Remove me from my chitinous shell, I want to be fuzzy. I want to be something that can gao. I want the world to turn off, just for one day.
Just for one day.
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