It's a refuge here.
It's a quiet spot in snow and literature where I can hide for three days before going back and committing crimes
an abrupt end
catapulting myself for the sake of myself, going up up and away
being selfish
It's just me and me here and a holding period and quiet and refuge.
And it's not fair back there. It's not fair, it's not easy, it's not lethargic, it's kind and sweet and supportive until the line is quickly cut short — the nice one won't finish first; the nicer might not either; in the end, it may very well just be me at the finish line and that just might make me the happiest.
And my hair is growing longer and I'm "breezy," smiles and waterfalls and we all know what that means.