"How's the job hunt going"?
"Good, yeah good".
Tired of the hunt.
"It's tough out there".
"Ah yeah, but you have to keep at it".
Under the duvet. Morning envelopes drop onto the cold hall floor below. Contents as stark and anonymous as their sender's identities.
"You all set for Christmas"?
"Nearly there".
Nearly nowhere.
Other faces know. They hold their judgments close for safe keeping. Hanging onto those treasured beliefs with all their might, lest they see themselves and become submerged too.
Better than. I could never do that. He needs to shape up.
Shape has lost form.
Up has a ceiling now.
Never is forever.
A secret world with empty rooms.
Space for all, but invites unsent.

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