I hang below you, burning and transient. An ember in its last fit of fire, a solitary moment of radiance before turning to cinders. Falling inwardly, an opaque patch of soot beneath a flickering frame.
A life synthetic. The syncopation of dissent, an abstraction of reality played out with human bodies. An all encompassing fear of the comfort that drives us to divergent paths.
I weigh this in time, as men often do. Slicing the future into edible portions, easy to digest. Legible, expendable. A trail of whispered tomorrows that expire sooner than milk.
It tastes like sincerity.
