pyjamas left unwashed

Time is rude. Time is impatient. Time laughs at your sorrows sailing across the feathered ripples, bursting into wilted cherry blossoms. Time kisses your eye and slyly takes your hand while you are preoccupied with its sunken lips, a sunken morose ship. 

Time is rude. Time is impatient, like pyjama pants left unwashed by the sun.

The thing about letting go is that you have to bite your heart out, glowing and slug-slimey with fluorescent blood. You must hold it out on your tongue and let the smoke evaporate into purple, bruised fogs. This is because there is a point where sunlight stops being real. It slides like ice through paper in the summer and leaves you with wrinkled, shredded fingers. Fingers rendered edible like jelly. 

Letting go of time requires the same sort of discipline. Let your teeth grow in the winter while the snow is still white. While we propel ourselves towards toothless fates.

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