short-lived friends: we end when something slightly slips. all the pieces change. i don’t trust the ground on which i stand. something feels so strange, all the pieces change. hands pressed in cement crumble and fade out - they wash away. a person just like me might exist someday. in three months time, new faces will be living here. i’ll pack up my things. what would they say if i remained? i’ll pack up my things and walk away.