it seems i have convinced myself the world is not my own. bees do not buzz for me and snow never falls where i tread. it seems i have convinced myself the world is not my own.

i walk outside of everyone. i see the entire world through a window i found, lying in dust in an attic where i used to be a part of something more. this window might be grimy and it might shatter when i lose the ability to be careful, but it is mine. at times, all i own.

and, the world does not want me, does not need me, never looks inside that window i live behind.

i never wished on stars - how pointless!

i've never seen a psychic or tore a wishbone in two. there is no point; the world has given me all it can manage.

Saddened, i have nothing to return.

but i walk. i walk so much in my mind, alone in travels, alone in thoughts, and the whispers softly come from low-hanging trees dipping down to touch my shoulders; they wish me luck.