The 31st Of The 12th

We called the dead from their graves and told them they’ve finished one year of their eternity. Such good friends they were.By the campfire, flames dispensed in the still air after eating the last of their book’s pages.

Some things never fade. They just change states or shed skin. Bones remain as flower petals fall of scaly skin, and scaly skin falls off skeletal remains.Crumbling masks. Origins that send goosebumps to the skin.

I was never able to understand such processes. I don’t see the point anymore anyways.I’ve heard congratulations on the new beginning, the new birth. Such naive actions. The book hasn’t finished yet. The writer’s hand just got crippled. His tongue got cut; his eyes popped. This always happens on the 31st of the 12th. The brain is what remains functioning, forced to reflect on a story it can no longer tell. Self- torture. The worst and the best all send yearning thoughts that sizzle and fry. Those who use their senses never experience such pain. This year, I agreed to continue the book that will be burnt.

I attached a pen to the clock’s arms and surrounded it with papers pinned down by my friends’ bones. I hid it all away in the depth of the jungle.

Let them cripple my hands. The clock will continue the story.

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