Life.
Sometimes it sets my teeth on edge.

Every time you fail at life you are at the crossroad; "Nova". And then the non-failure of starting over begins. The superficial wounds are evident on my arms, they remind me that the trails marked with blood, are the past.

And in it's horrifying image, it is left standing in ruin, as you begin to cut a path untraveled in your limited woods. As an idol to what you've left behind, forgotten.

As I pull through the clearing, I can see him. With only the corner of my eye. He is ravaged, wrists slit.

Blood.
You must be from the past.

"I've a gift for you." He says, choking.

And as I grind a new path, through new woods, in an old car, I look back, at what was. And isn't.

My passenger haunts me, life. And his gift.

Birth

Yes
No
Do nothing