We pass the gardens past dark. The flowers are colourless now. I read once that all unseen trees fall in monochrome.
In my head, I’m seeing a forest of grey. Faded black trunks sigh. Retreat to a blackened earth.
Black grave. Black afterlife, if it exists. Black life too, if you can’t bring yourself to look.
Nothing if you’re not watched. Don’t we all exist for our crowds. Don’t we all perform, put on our shows, watch ourselves when there’s no one else.
I’m so tired. What am I saying. Who am I talking to.
( Vague, rooted fear. Then nothing. )
Just the tiredness again.
If I do not look at my hands will they turn ash.
Will they lose pigment and darken and turn black at the edges. Fade inwards.
Resist weakly before they crumble. Crumbling. Will there be nothing left of them.
When can I stop looking.
when can i stop
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