Winners we are not, do not ask thus. No winner am I, no winner was I ever. Is this sad to know? Is it?
But loser, losers art we all, those in whose eyes the retina red inside; those on whose palms a smear of the alphabets in black from the surface of a page in white otherwise; hangs the stitch loose on whose sweaters darned a thousand times - losers art they all when in hegemony of an urge intense, this paralysis they preach. Losers art they all to me!
"Where thy limbs?" I ask.
"When the loss", I scream.
On a mat blue the flow, this the flow of rivulet in cerise and cerise. I ceded with it too, oh Lord! I almost did.
Slow and slow the drag of sloth against the layers of my skin from within, thick the mucus jelly, grotesque the stench of the blood in me.
I almost did it, a step beyond the ledge me feet did ramble whilst a saunter was I captivated by. Thump, thump, thump, one step, two then, third the fall would have been; thwack, crack, thrash - third the fall would be.
See I them lying in stillness of the night like a...