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Andrew Cedermark
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Your Dream Is Killing Me
In the heat, I can feel my clothes, like when I'm drunk I feel my pulse. I could've built a fire with my desire. If nobody noted, well, the heat would still glow. When I grabbed it, the coil was cold. Now it burns and smolders. If I'm slow to let go, it's because I know that either way the burns will still show. Before I was born, there was a time, or so I've been told：'Humans were once soldiers! They were brave and bold did what they were told, and that few remain--the rest are in some hole. The world spins like a pig on a spit. Around an encroaching sun that'd kill all of us and torch all this. There's not much one can do about it, but still, how can you just sit? At least show us you give a shit. You're asleep at the switch. Wake up, please. Your dream is killing me.'
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