Fuse

He had slept on his side all night. And after a visit to the gym. His muscles had fused at the shoulder and he woke up in agony, popped a few pills and bought some flowers. He’d said lot’s of things that he felt bad about. Like with many things in his life, he regretted it. And he only really went to the gym to get rid of years of built up anxiety and false warning. Where he grew up, there were always sirens going off in the night. Some mornings his very soul was raided by fear of everything: hills, birds, water, milk. So the world became a sinister place, filled with danger; something to be feared. And when he ran to sweat it all out, he knew nothing was going to come of it. He was going nowhere and his trainers were falling apart with him.
He went about the flat as quietly as possible. Put flowers about the place. There would be either a celebration or a funeral later. His head thumped with old wine. He wished that last night was different.

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