Eight: twenty-two. I was sitting on a green chair, wire-stitched to prevent further breaking. I was staring; I was not seeing. I was thinking of a rainy evening where on the streets, barefooted, I was running for you. The skies rained blood. I weakened for it was my blood. I blinked and I was seated on a green chair close to breaking. Heart beat fast. Pain was slowly escalating — lower spine to left breast to head. Closing my eyes was instinctual. Tears seemed natural. One glass rose — slow, beautiful. I held it and broke — tragic. I inhaled to exhale. I opened my eyes; I was seeing. Eight: forty-eight.
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