They are not the only ones to disgrace me. I am not the only ones to disgrace them. Four locked doors with locked handles and a grim exterior like mine. Four who can open but will not. Four emotionless walls installed by man. From the cold, I cannot see them, but he does enjoy these things.

Their weakness is no secret. They stab skinny metal through a brittle frame. They stay now and they stay later and release the air around their solid structure and spit the fuel towards the selfish flames and always forget their hospitality. This is how they neglect.

Let one evoke his mistake for going, they’d all perk like hairs of thrill, each slipping from their bonds divorced from the uniform. Rear, rear, rear they say when I near. They keep.

When I am too jubilant and too full to conceal concealing, when I am a pompous thing inside so few walls, then it is I blind at doors. When there is everything left to be blind to away from this life. Four who closed in spite of blood. Four who ignore and do continue to ignore. Four whose sole wisdom is to forsake and forsake.