Staring hard into my eyes in the rear view mirror, hands clenching the wheel, though I'm not trying to steer. I'm sure the road that waits is empty. My wheels barely grip the road through the falling snow and the falling snow has ideas of where it wants me to go; this can't end well.
Starry eyes, sweaty palms, shaky legs at the site of my reflection in the despair between my death and the rest of my life. I keep trying to start running, but my lungs keep failing me. Blurry vision, a condition, which can only compound dissolution of my morals so I'll try to yell, but my lungs keep failing me. It's hard to tell whether or not I don't want to keep living, or if my lungs are just failing me. I've been caught in the snow, and before I know the cold has pulled a numbness over me like a sheet. Lying in a red mural of myself I muster the will to survive. I keep trying to start running, but my lungs keep failing me.
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