Perhaps if I walk backward.

Sit in a room with music and a typewriter.

Like I’m some dirty stinking writer. Like I’ve got value in these keys, hoping one of these strokes will bring some health.

PAH!

As if there is any wisdom, wealth, fame, solace, peace, or calm amidst this keyboard. Hoping one of these sentences means I’m alive.

A paper trail. It’s my hope I’ll find a way to miraculously lay them in front of me, so I’ll know the way to step.

Perhaps if I walk backward… I think to myself, blindly following my own advice.