As everything beings to fall apart I realize, there is too much white paint. Too much white paint, it is covering my arms. It beings to grow, stretching over my skin, crawling up my neck, on to my face, into my eyes. Somewhere, Daisy is playing, but I can not see from where. Everything is white, has my vision gone or is it the paint? Much to my chagrin I find as I try to lift my arms to my eyes, my limbs have vanished. My phantom limbs pulse with great pain, the aching in my head is unbearable. White paint floods my lungs, clogs my throat. I suddenly regret not showing more appreciation to my toes. I miss them now that they are gone. The rest of my body is disappearing, I can actually feel it. It dissolves into bright blank white space, where I can still feel myself, though I am not there at all. As everything falls apart, I lose myself. Eternity stretches on, and there is nothing left but dreams. They are all haunted by you.
When a bicycle dies, a Cyclist sighs.
Copying this work to another webpage without author permission is plagiarism.
Plagiarism is a misdemeanor, usually punishable by fines of $100-$50000 and up to one year in jail.
Comments on Flowers as it ends.