Drawing out a line, extending from
the forearm of a man you’ve loved
to forget, you are heading down yet
another backalley into a town with
no name but yours. Your name on
the streets, like a flock of birds,
a mob of hungry hungry cars,
running to death on fumes and
long-fought wars. At times, you find
others like yourself, down to the bone
and marrow of yesterday’s favourite
corpses, walking as though nothing
will ever end. Your hand is in
-complete, segmented at the
wrong joints, a crowd dispersing
as you wander about, your
half-hand filtering the sun.
It has been a while since you last
found the light, the canopy
of skyscrapers and too-shiny
condominiums long blotting out
a quilt of sunlight, draping the
down in quiet misery, so you
stand there in the warmth,
your limbs branching out
thirsty for life, and look
it’s morning again, and
look at everything you could ever be
but aren’t.
At a moment’s notice, all is silent
for a while. Your ears fill
themselves with words,
your mouth too small
for everything you want to say.
There is no turning back.
The line has long been cut,
and there is an echo in every house.

Freewriting Explanation: Every day, Valen shall use 5 minutes to write completely unprompted and uninterrupted, letting the words lead the way. There is no end purpose to each piece, but rather, the pieces are allowed to develop naturally in their own way. The pieces are then uploaded without edits.