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Breath and weight.

I am sitting in the tube.

Old, cold and squeaky plastic seat.

I feel the rather rough ups and downs of the rails.

My back is hunched.

It helps me breathe, when I have weight in my sternum.

I try to take deep breaths, without making it noticeable.

Arrive at my stop.

I inhale. as much as I can.

I stand up from the seat.

I feel my muscle. Every fibre of it.

Some contract and some expand. And then some relax.

They do it in a marvelous sequence and I am up.

I get out.

I know this metro like the back of my hand.

My hippocampus activates. And my skeletal-musculars follow.

I focus on my breathing.

I suck in my stomach. Try to keep my breaths from getting too heavy.

The weight in my sternum has turned into pain.

It pokes at my brain.

I tense up my eye lids.

I feel the coolness.

My tear evaporates from the surface of my eyes.

My building door is heavy.

I grab the handle and pull.

I lean back and put my weight on it.

I feel a moment of oblivion. As my muscle fibres sequentially contract and expand so rapidly.

I say hi to the doorman.

My body language reeks of misery.

He cheerfully reciprocate my hi.

I pushed the button.

I feel that kind of agony.

I see the numbers change in a small rectangle.

Door opens.

I hit 5, I lean on the rail. Put my head on the wall.

Loud announcement, and a beep.

Hippocampus. In the hallway.

I push on the door.

It is almost never locked.

Empty living room.

Enter my room.

Small and cramped.

I half climb on the bed.

Pull on the string.

Blind ascends.

See, my entire wall is a window.

It faces southwest.

I see the setting sun.

Buildings.

Orange and blue.

I exhale.

The end of my breath shakes.

Gently and violent.

I get violent.

I bring my legs in with my knees pointing the ceiling.

I pull my cover over.

I breathe carefully.

I mourn.

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