Every fiction becomes a friction.
In this artificial word ring, we're all broken. Tentative, almost-squeezes, as boxers between lunges. Quicksmile reflexes. Bruised, some set hard and deep. A permafrost of distance and privacy. This playground of plastic niceness, predictable verses and already-tired questions is worn with rote opinions and timed laughter. We're harnessed tight into this trapeze of talk, with plenty of net to protect our fall. This artful game of parry and segue is long lost to me. We're too smart for this idle time of society posturing. Nothing has changed, except everything. The moss grows wild over order, reclaiming chaos, through cracks newly widened by ice. Everything erodes, every fiction becomes a friction. We're broken and we're tearing each other further apart. Thaw, friends, thaw.