I've sequestered myself for all time. I measure the days in spent candles and balled up pieces of paper. All the failed attempts at writing down what I know.
I have grown accustomed to charting my own horoscope, basing all of my interactions or non-actions on their suggestions.
I have been in this house for two years because of their foresight. Two long years, measured in seven hundred and thirty candle remnants and equal amount of papers strewn here and there on a floor I cannot see but feel.
I have been sitting in this same chair for the past day because of ill tidings concerning movement that the horoscopes have shown me.
All the words those stars have given me. Brittle, broken fragments of destiny.
My future is preordained.
My future is bleak and a study in inaction.
I remain resolute. I do what the stars say.
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When once it falls, we become crushed by its grace and fall prey to its brilliancy. A collection of sudden and automatic fiction.
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