I cannot bear to pulse a beat longer as I abandon the note, half-finished, relinquishing the mighty for the sword. From downstairs my father calls, the mundane sickening as I think of the doors and corridors and walls.

I had always wanted to fly - an eagle trapped inside an ostrich - but no matter how hard I tried not to care, I always failed and a telling feather would betray all because there was never enough sand. My father’s calls were inscribed on a pinhead and no writing on a pill was as relaxing as that sublime acupuncture, but the pleasant promised apathy never came, despite my willingness to be seduced. No matter how hard I pinched myself I always felt the next blow more than the last, because the tired scars for help neither lent the wings nor plucked my mind. So I continued to dream of soaring whilst I yet ran among the multitude of those who know not from what, my leather legs graceless and earthen and every jarring jolt a reminder that I was chained.

By the sword I flee the sordid insults of monochromes splashed with neons and downstairs’ callings and sunrises and sunsets. For me no more struggles, for I shall flow with nature, in and out as the tide, although avoiding the noxious repetition of circles, not loathing being but human being. Farewell at last then, and to this last I blame you not, for you did not lose paradise, but I.