Strands of Dried Leaves

Strands of dried leaves that hang about your neck, they dance with each motion, their bodies rustle in wonder. Did you notice the stripes on the bathroom walls? Orange, cream, rotten green, shivering in the electric air. My hands find the ground, hard and cold, they count each tile. Three-hundred-thirty-five. The interwoven lines that the tiles create form the grid of life. I am sitting on square two-hundred-twenty-three. Only a few left to conquer until my trivial existence is at an end.