Flush

Prose

Michael Stang
Apr 12 · 2 min read
Pexels_Pixabay

Light doesn’t fade against darkness. Not much difference in the atmosphere but still-night is coming. I can’t button my shirt, can’t walk a straight line, I lie as in a painter’s canvass character unmoored, night happens without control.

Taste and smell nap. Sounds around themselves quiet, separate, they never figured stop. We can end this anytime we want, but not ending it, we continue, like sound.