what could he possibly say. nothing. nothing will leave his lips again, maybe he did forget how to talk when he slept.

not again.

a nod of the head will suffice though, communication through body language, nobody suspects the hollowness in his head, the emptying of his insides through his ears, nobody knows a thing about the long nights tossing and turning sheets about his body cutting off circulation to the brain in order to stop the pressure building up on the top of it --

the very top of the brain where all enters through a tiny hole ---

clogged up with too many things entering at once, traffic jam like earlier in the morning, cars piling upon cars, piling upon tar and yellow lines, upon soil and rock, upon gravel and hill, mountain and shelf, tectonic plates on top of themselves, squishing into a tiny ball, concentrating on so much pressure until...

oil strikes surface
flying flags of overall
delusional with comfort
there are sparks at j's feet
that walk lines on curbs
and light and burn entire
civilizations and forests
with ignorance and little regret.

j reaches into his pocket and finds the keys to the car. j slowly walks away from the designated smoking area approaching the parking lot. a walk becomes a strut, a strut becomes a sprint and before you know it you're jogging and the wind is throwing your hair and the ground is pounding on your feet and you're not avoiding puddles and there's water soaking at your ankles and you're jumping into a car and reversing