The Canary in the Coalmine

Two years later I heard from him again. Suddenly finding my face like the dirt under my nails that never comes out from them. Big lies in little packages. Gifts for the dead. And time travellers on their long journey back to the beginning again.

We are particles. We are dust. On the soles of the giants we call possibility. Imagining in color. Drawing in pencil. On scraps of paper torn from borrowed books.

I couldn't say how far. Nor how close. I was just then. To the things that we seek. Because those change. And so do we. But time. It just stays the same.

Awake in this coma. These imaginary walls a fitting prison. For the strangers I call myself by. These sentences always end with a preposition. Because the grammar of time is different. Because the numbers have another language. One I can understand, but cannot speak.

She chases the wolf. Because he has her candy. Unafraid because she had never been bitten. She challenges the witch. To build a house that isn't a lie.