Steal away unnoticed from familiar company. Toe off your house slippers and sneak up the back stairs to the attic. Frustrate the ambitions of floorboards made creaky by age and recalcitrant damp. Turn the latch and push the skylight open and watch oak leaves and fir needles and dust fall past you like the ghost of autumn rushing to escape the harsh glare of day.
Lay across the dry patch of floor, with the light spilling across your skin, as if waiting for death or a lover. Close your eyes and feel only.
Reach out and grab the clouds for your pillow. Reach up and take the sun and put it in your mouth and chew and swallow, stoking flames already beginning their burn inside you. Wait to be freed from all restraint by time and custom.
Do not come when called for supper; go only when the light dies.
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