No single one is better. Reddened fabrications pass on and through our heads. Concocting weary tales of our stature being different. Swinging the big oak doors wide open and leaping from the granite steps over the threshold. Rolling down the slope of busted skulls and collar bones. Sliding into the tar pits. With losers emptying large bags of feathers from above. Chuckling because they don’t get the least of it. Most of my days I spend in my head waiting for the second hand to turn the other way. Typing gibberish that serves none of my dreams. Talking to others instead of facing my nightmares. That’s real dishonesty for you. It’s a defensive manoeuvre in which I’m the first to get it. Totally pointless. If I practice what the circles have learned me I know that forcing the light in works. I know that the efforts are rewarded every time. Still the fall kills me time and time again.