I went out thinking. I coughed. I swallowed the wind, it buried itself inside my lungs. Air is a comedic thing, I said to you. I remember saying it, but the words never left the crevice in my black lips. Crisp, like the weather. Like the leaves, broken and split, but together. I think about these things, sometimes, when I am alone. My soul, perched. The air is loud in my insides, it rumbles. Deep breath. I am inside the breath. This moment. The thought of death, exquisite and fragile. The breath travels through the caverns, inside my thoughts. It snakes between my morality and freedom. Change is constant. Permanence is not real. I realize it is true. I have made my bed. My covers, covering me until again, I cannot breathe. Come along with me, this is a journey. But I will not hold you, you must walk. Stumble. Travel forward. Swirling around me are images of you and me and me and you. I am a whirlwind. And there is the wind again, catching me off guard. Down, it travels. I choke. And gasp. In expectation, I am not alarmed. Liberation.