i don't know. how to find that small warm corner to tuck myself into. get away from a bad day and craving cigarettes. how easy it'd be to drown in that short rush, where words seem much better than they really are, where i'm better than myself. i'm good at self-torment. great at the slow death. i can dive deep into the dark mud and find just a little bit of hope...wringe its tender neck...
there is no great answer. no wonderful montyhall-like prize. you didn't get to collect $200, you couldn't get past go. frozen. not even undone.
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