Drug-Induced Ramblings of a Sober Insomniac

Monotony. I consider myself well-rooted, but I have always hoped for something more than this mercilessly lifeless existence.

Hope. My face is marred with scratches, careworn beyond its years. I’d give anything for something out of the ordinary.

Crash. A gruesome conglomeration of metal and flesh. My body, splintered, lays spewn all around.

The ambulance is the first to arrive. Paramedics rush to the scene, but pass by me in their haste to recover bodies from what was once a car. They are too late.

Police cars follow. The scene is roped off, but countless people stop to see what has happened.

Soon another car arrives.

A father of two finds himself a father of one.

A girl approaches. She never touches me, never speaks, but her caring gaze more than suffices.

She returns to her grieving father. A question is asked.

“But Daddy, what about the tree? It looked so sad.”

Somewhere a girl is punished because trees don’t have feelings.

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