Less

The line was long. Chasing itself. Time is Celsius. Memory is Fahrenheit. Trying to go back she ran into herself. Again and again. They'd argue about which one belonged where.

Wolves huffing and puffing over already demolished houses. Dead pigs. Spoiling in a grave of bricks.

The future to go there she knew has to have many instances. The future, to exist, had to be prepared for any and all choices.

The future, she could always smell, miles off. Like a burning barbecue. One timeline after another collapsing into the bonfire. We start at the end and work our way back to something reasonable. Or at least, something we can comprehend. Writing first the lies, hoping to find some truth in them.

Collecting those superfluous selves one at a time until the future is dead again.

I'll never be a hammer. But I'll still want to pound the nail in.

Tomorrow is too much. Today too little.