those mornings are the stranges occurances throughout the years, that cannot be described at beautiful or horrible, but as truth, since it pulls like a knot in my chest in the form of a shadow that I cannot grasp (like counting and forgetting a number), pulling the stings attached to my limbs through the will of something hidden inside of me, where I want to leave all behind, including my brown worn wallet, my dried hearding aids, and forget packing and start walking west towards plains to climb over the mountains into alaska, where I would hunt with a rifle and a knife to make living easier than in walmart, and laying on rocks and leaves would make no difference since sleep would only be missing that number I try to keep counting while I live here and now with my clothes on, working an honest living with a job that only is a job and school is only school, where the bed I sleep on is no more comfortable than the waking of the day, and god would is trapped in all of this inside of my introverted folded world, that world where I am naked and making no difference to myself with others, but for the bare life I have, that I am hiding.