Not All Caterpillars Need Emerge

Jazz is a warm blanket
in the nighttime. I want to
cocoon myself in the
texture
of it. I want to
bury myself alive
in the scent of pencil shavings
fresh off the
knife, of coffee beans
from the
bag. I
want to air-seal myself
inside with the
piano and the soft
glow of the screen, the Guinness
as black as the silhouette of the
mountains
at 10:22pm in
the
autumn.

 

 

 

 

Day 263’s three random writing prompt categories were, “Chrysalis,” “Written as a poem,” and, “Buried alive.”

Yes. Just like this.

– H.

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