Attached at needle point, my eyes are slowly and painfully drawn together.
Once they are sealed, the seamstress ties the remaining string into a bow.
Such a wonderfully little present it is to be blinded.
I no longer see the world, instead I jump from my skin and explore it.
My imagination turns virtue into lilacs, pain into astonishing fireworks.
I use my skin as a parachute, cascading down the never-ending slopes of the street.
I burrow into a restaurant’s booth and eat the air for nourishment.
No longer will I waste my time or lose a moment with a blink.
When one turns out the light, the world really can be vibrant.
Rainy days turn into small galaxies grazing my skin and pavement.
Long outstretched nights turn into a great foreign film that I can play over and over.
The only present I really ever owned is just behind my eye lids.
The string doesn’t play with me like the outside world play with me.
I am their toy.
In my own eyes, I can reside forever is a fruitful and decadent valley.
Sleep use to be my eight hours of joy; Now, I get to live in imagination every single moment.
Come to repair me when these strings do snap.
I want to enjoy my lifelong nap.