This Is All Going To End Badly.

The higher up I get, the farther back the winds push me.

(I'm always the shortest one in my dreams.)

Once I almost made it to the top. That's when the avalanche came.

(I often think about life in terms of intangibles. How do you mean? Well, for instance, my favorite song is out there somewhere and I still haven't heard it. What If I never do? That's healthy, right?)

I should have been brought down with it. Instead I'm the sole survivor; the inheritant of a dirty white wasteland.

(But are creature comforts enough if I don't have another creature to comfort?)

So do I keep climbing? Or do I turn back and embrace the familiar? Lather, rinse, repeat...

(Give the word and I'll cry on command. A real-life tragedy and my eyes are as dry as the sand.)

My ribs are flecked with bruises. I'm tired.

(I've been loved and I've been loathed. I think I prefer just being tolerated.)

If this is all that awaits me at the top, I think I'll stay right here. And sleep.

("Tonight": it means millions of things to millions of people, paints millions of pictures. It's a word of infinite possibility. Just not for me. Not tonight. And why do you say that?)

I was always ill-prepared.

(I don't know.)

This is all going to end badly.