i'm not here. i walked away. there weren't any birds chirping when I left. When I stopped being here. It was quiet. i walked away without whistling. you know that I Am not Here and that i Walked away. You know that it was quiet when I stopped being here. Your knowing is a silence. I know that I'm not here and that I walked away without any birds chirping and that you know and that your knowing is silence. I know. And I'm not here. I never was. I didn't write this. You didn't read it and aren't reading and and never will read it and there are no birds chirping right now, it is quiet. But you can see these words. You must have written them in silence without any birds chirping when I walked away, when I stopped being here. You wrote all of this and I am reading it as I walk away quietly. There are no birds chirping but they are here, all around and inside us. They were inside me when I walked away and they tried to chirp but silence is a black iron prison. The moisture on the bars doesn't quench thirst but instead makes for treacherous footing for anyone walking away silently without any birds chirping. I slipped on those bars and the noise I made shook the world, reverberated throughout all the birds in your head chirping silently. The noise I made when I slipped shook the world but no one heard it because silence is a black iron prison. The metal on the bars tastes like your hair. Birds roost in your hair and try to chirp but they cough silently because your hair smells like rotten metal. I walked away quietly when I stopped being here and smelled your hair like rotten metal chasing me through a forest of iron bars stretching upwards indefinitely. Quietly. They never reach the top no matter if they are here or not, no matter if they walked away or didn't, no matter if they smell like your hair or they do not. They curl, indefinitely, obliquely, and smell like your hair. My bed smells like your hair on quiet mornings like the one where I walked away silently and listened for birds chirping but heard nothing, obscured by rotten metal flakes falling from your enormous head which was trying to squeeze between the bars of a black iron prison. The vibrations you made squeezing through the bars of a black iron prison shook the world and reverberated throughout all the birds in your head chirping silently. It was music. I am not here but I walked away to the music playing, your head squeezing and black iron prison bars creaking silently, all silently, in black and white except for the birds in your head which glowed a faint neon pink. There were not any birds chirping when I stopped being here, when I walked away without looking back at your heavy head caught between two black iron prison bars that smelled like your hair. I didn't look back to see the faint neon pink light from the birds in your head begin to leak out from your head which, like an egg, had begun to crack under the pressure from the black iron prison bars to the music of reverberating silent chirps. The noise which didn't sound like anything followed me as I walked away and even though I'm not here anymore, and I did not write this, it leaks under my doorway at night as a fine pink dust. Even though I did not write this and you did, and I am reading it, the pink dust from the neon light of birds chirping silently in your head still leaks under my door at night, and sometimes through cracked windows. Even though I walked away and slipped on moisture collected from your forehead onto black iron prison bars I still smell like your hair. I still smell like your hair and there is a black iron prison bar running through my abdomen and stretching off into space even though I walked away to silent reverberating chirps and pink dust leaked from your egg cracked head. There isn't any blood coming from my abdomen just fine pink dust which must have leaked from under my door or through a cracked window. Your head is still there pressed between the bars of a black iron prison even though the faint neon light is not so faint and even though your hair still smells like rotten metal. The faint neon light is not so faint and it follows me. I walked away but it follows me. I'm not here but wherever I go you write these words and I read them in the light from your neon pink head just over the horizon, sickening silence with light. Maybe the birds will fly from your head and take you with them through the bars of a black iron prison. Maybe your head will mend and faint pink neon light will stop leaking from it. Maybe your hair (and my fingernails) will stop smelling like rotten metal. But I still am not here, I still walked away in silence without any birds chirping and you still wrote this to the music of black iron prison bars crushing your head. Maybe you will hear the music. But I swim in fine pink dust and your head glows like a sickness spreading like light over silence. My side aches from a black iron prison bar stretching obliquely through my horizon and through your horizon. But I still am not here. The empire never ended. I walked away. Nothing changed.