So far and low, the dirt covers me to my mouth. It’s dark and gritty, textured almost like an Oreo, until I realize that texture isn’t everything and I taste dirt. I’m low now. So low I’m not sure what type of shovel I would need to dig myself up. Exploding raisins dance across my vision and I want to jump and swallow them the moment before they explode. The darkness is almost complete, the disappointment too much so.

Soldiers in black outfits drop from the roofs. I welcome them to my breakfast nook and offer them a dinner roll. If we all eat dinner rolls, the world will be brighter, more possible; if I served butter with the rolls, the world might be a tasty place.

I don’t want to write this now. I don’t want to stay on the blue chair and move my fingers without moving my wrists. The door swings and I don’t know which direction to run. Running isn’t always good. There’s always walking and skipping and walking backwards, but what fun are those activities when the door swings.