(found up high in the clouds, where only the 737 could reach)
That’s not the reason.
But my palm was sweaty.
I should have never held on to begin with.
I should have never let go.
Just let the lungs fill up with fluid.
Never should have left the hospital, even.
That’s what I’m sorry about.
Should never have come to be, should never have started.
What is the source of it? The source – I certainly am not that. Nowhere near that.
It could have been all my fault. It probably was. It could have been. But even if it was, am I the origin?
I often wonder when I am to become what I am.
Yes, I failed. Or we or us all. What is we? What is us anymore? Is it what it was? Was it ever what it is?
I have one-sided conversations. I talk to walls. The ceiling, in particular, enjoys hearing about you.
I am sword. I am shield. I am warm blanket on a windy night. I am come to conquer.
I am dragonslayer.