Stacking burnt matches. Fiddling with their carcasses. I'm trying to remember her advice. Trying to trace all the coercion of others for profit. But all there is to see is matches. Feel the wheat in my blood. Trying to remember the advice I've been given. How all sharpness fades. But I can revisit, though the pain doesn't seem to persist. Maybe if this was it, rolling through my fingers, I could live with that decision. When do I internalize this utter lack of talent? What does it look like? There are gears pushing me along. Return to the sleeper car, rushing across the plains. Take responsibility for a decision. Accomplish something where I can feel shreds of pride. Remember the double room? Outside the courtyard? Inching along to regulation. I guess I can feel that happening now. There is little inside me, it is with others I feel whole. Tragic you'll never be someone else. Stuck in one body, stuck in one mind. For the rest of your life. Chase something greater. Feel connected to my age. Dig my feet into the sand.