sun set cubicles

The air is heavier. Just crushed these ribs. The shy morning sun from the cubicle seat. To lean over a ledge, to stand upon and ponder, to ask ourselves is anything worth everything. Got menus in mind in all these golden hours to pause and ponder; to take a few steps back, run and fly right over the edge, landing safely on the other side. Had the one painfully kept from everyone, conscious of what hurt might generate. Never speaks of fear. Kept thing. Trying to face what hides the withdrawal limit: to a winning game. Find me a number I should have not seen. Numbers up to 30 and in between. Anger has flames inside pupils. Beneath these perfect numbers shown. Everything is a relative and truth is no one. There are so many to see, but so few to firmly believe. That only spoken words are to be taken as real. Last pleasant words written followed by a tired and sad voice, undriven by vocal cold remedy. Through thunder and fire. Cannot speak: broken sentences of mere superficial ungenuine concern. Distant miles apart. Games are not to be played where serious words are to be certified with signature. Breach of contract not yet accepted. Access denied. Crushed, but still standing. Regain a stance and still remain fighting. Silent or not, the unrelated interlocutor of the moment. Of sun set cubicles.