of course

À Bout de Soufflé

sixteen chances to collect yourself.

every breath surrounding your conscious like a piece of buttered bread.

tired.

can't seem to move away from this invisible clutch.

the glue that once held us so connected, now weaker.

now still remains.

Like the strings falling from an unwinding shirt.

No longer is it one with where it belongs.

But you can not say it does not exist.

Because even in pieces it is real.

christ.

I cannot see beyond this.

I can not move my mountain.

I tried to go around it.

But found my feet were broken.

I've considered tunneling under.

But learned I had no tools.

Ive tried to play the mountains game.

But i do not know the rules.

So alas, i sit here.

Pondering whats at hand.

I know ill have to climb this mountain.

Yet i question if i can.