The world is a stove and I’m scared I’ll get burned. I wave my hand over it cautiously testing its vivacity. The heat rises calmly enveloping my hand like a glove with no shape. Is it a sign of current blaze? Or past? I can’t tell. And I don’t have the strength to endure the pain anymore. Is this what giving up feels like? Or rest? I can’t tell. And I don’t have the mental fortitude to put thoughts into form. They wander around like pigs in a pen. Chomping on leftovers and rolling around in footprints of past. I hope they’re happy. And I guess that means something. But there’s nothing left in me now to help collect what.