Golden Gate

Golden Gate.

My pockets are empty, as there is nothing left for me to steal. My hands and mouth are empty too, except for my few and frail words.

I fell asleep on the floor. My shoulder and head ache. My tongue and throat are dry.

I’d lost track of the days and the drinks. So, I laid here, and I remember watching a spider crawl across the ceiling. It was out of my reach, therefore, out of harm. It needed nothing from me, nor nothing to give.

I wonder who might have been be watching me here on the floor. But I already know. And I would not evade peril this time. My heart and bones were due a good crushing underfoot.


About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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