fill my time with paper cranes and thumb twiddling madness. there are a million pairs of shoes and i haven’t stepped foot in any of them. i lock my door scared of no one in particular. the windows are cold and the blinds are always drawn and i can hardly see my floor anymore. my collection of laundry money sits piled on my desk, a stained gold that says the thousands of words floating silently around the room. empty tea cups, scattered books, loveable chaos, that’s all it is. there is other skin, other smells and other bodies but only mine is here and that’s solitude. the dalai lama’s and marilyn monroe’s of the world wrote on the same page, they saw the same things and i bet they had laundry money one time. the heater smells like burnt hair and mine has stopped growing. the washing takes years to dry, the hands take years to warm, the heart takes years to heal, the silence takes years to be heard. 

protect your eyes and skin from dust and the outside, hold your head down and protect your face from the wind and air, hold your hands together and touch nothing or you pay, walk briskly and avoid confrontation with no one, escape quietly so you can be loud alone.