8.28

The longer I wait, the more my legs itch to be up and about. I long to be vital. I yearn to pick up a spear and run through the woods, shadows playing on my ragged hair, wind bringing the scent of certainty to my prey. And then, I can drive my blade between ribs and through organs, out the skin and dripping blood. Lines leave me feeling cramped and oppressed. Collected with the press of humanity, I stand, trembling in the gates with a race to run.