Hundred

Ride a bike a hundred times. Continuous petaling noises. Screeching centipedes. Underground. Ride a bike a hundred times. Through the tunnel. If I existed… Wouldn’t I have made it though by now? Eat pizza a hundred times. Slices which are triangles. Tired, tired slices. The pizza delivery man is back. Continuous. Or maybe not. Into the tunnel. Existence. A hundred times. Then a hundred more. Seems continuous enough. Flying, and unstoppable. I learned to count that day. I counted wrong. It was over. So the centipedes creep in.