arido-X

Sometimes the ceiling drops in on him, and sometimes the walls move too close. Thoughts of something happening somewhere twirl twittering through his mind, conversations which happen in our heads, don't actually exist. Such confines confound him, no space left to rest. Heavy eyes search wearily, and things seem to shrink. Get higher and higher, the birds seem to cry, there's plenty of space left in the sky. He reached in the air, from the highest spot around. He died in a tree in which he wouldn't come down.