these days i wake slow slink out of bed to bathroom and shoes take the elevator down from some strange room to walk the city in gray drizzle blue cold midtone wind tunnel
i keep a watch i don't look at i hold a map i don't need the new days are alive all old days are dead leave them in the tissue paper and fall in love with solitude
This is a small story for you.
A work of fiction.
I'll write it, even if I don't know what it's about. Shouting to the void, as anyone would want to.
On a pragmatic note, you might like to get emails from me.
I mean, they're not from me. Instead, a computer standing between us sends you a copy of what I wrote. Then you can read it in your e-mailbox.
Maybe you'll enjoy it still. Even with the robot standing between us.
See you inside.
- Matt
Selected rooms: