Watch the threshold ignite in little ribbons,
in an insanity of your own design.
Wait for that door to open and bring forth
your demise that you confine to Stockholm.

You like it here. You like the fear.
It keeps you company in the dark
when you’ve positioned the cushions in the corner
and marked another night on the wall.

It’s not so bad. You don’t mind the mad jailor,
sitting just outside with his palm on the handle.
Come sunrise, he’ll let you stretch your legs,
and nothing will be able to hold a candle to Stockholm.

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