The dripping faucet stayed up late into the night, keeping rhythm, giving company to the kitchen clock that had trouble keeping up with time, running a little slower with every passing day.
The oven bell rang; the high protein bread had turned into a caterpillar. Whether it makes it to a butterfly or not, is entirely out of your hands, although you’re allowed a bite, or two.
Somewhere in your room, a cricket is singing the same tune, and in the morning, you will find another rat in the trap, caught in the act of a late night craving of deep fried, salted anchovies. The pied piper has long retired, and is now a vegan monk living on a mountain that can’t be found on any map.
You eat a pinch of the caterpillar bread, only to find yourself at a failed amusement park, where the Ferris wheel had stopped going around in circles for a long, long time, although she still glowed in neon; writing yet another poem about the moon, or maybe the wind, waiting for tomorrow’s sunshine to force itself into your soul.
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