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.
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