I’m reaching for something out of reach. The madness of it sends me into fits of despair.
Are you there?
I’m alone. But I thought you were near.
It wrings my stomach like a wet towel. I’ve given my all, and what’s left is sour milk. I spit.
I’m no longer me but an artificial copy. My body grows cold and shivers; nothing is real.
Is this madness? The train that never comes. The headlamp lighting the dark. The writing on the window is gibberish that he thinks is not.
The radio’s on, and a psychological thriller sends my heartbeat running.
I’m alone with a madman, I scream to no one. There’s the highway. Close enough to touch. The dark of night. Then headlights. Hope. I could bolt.
Its passing is as final as death, and I wither. Defeated. Nothing left. I die.