I didn't feel like a big plate of pancakes. The door is cracked, the light is so dim, and it is quiet.
I sit in this quiet, reflecting.

The world is still moving, even though it feels like it shouldn't.
And everything is slow; everything is painted with memories. It's still in the room.


Whenever it rains, the watercolors bleed into one another, pale and dull and finite.
I hear birds in the painting.
The trees sway.

There are rainbows of iridescent light and white fluffs from dandelions,
and I can look down into the dark chasm of bright stars all around me
and see the things we never did, existing in nonexistence.
My blankets aren't soft, but I have more space to sprawl. I notice what needs to be healed.
There are remnants of myself I can see, and pieces of him are now a part of me.