Every full moon we’re given permits. On occasion they’ve felt like rocks, weighing down our souls. Sometimes they function as population control.
The abstract isn’t something we’re terribly familiar with but I remember what it’s like to feel. When I was first brought here sadness compounded fear. Anger settled in next. A long lost cousin staying despite what I insisted.
They dangle these permits, inspiring us with lust and greed.
What shall we receive?
The paper melts away in my hand but not before I can read. A permit for hope, emotion I no longer crave.