We escape in Thursday afternoons in scents of fire and milk. In sizzles of the oil, and the fried, and the fat that slither through the dough. We escape in little, gentle steps. In shy hushes, in gushes, in a little rush. With little pain and much life. With little love and much blindness.

We escape in Thursday afternoons with the sheets, with the grass. With the dust that fly away and the fading shimmer, or glitter, of a faraway sun. We stare at the sun, and we walk on the earth and it sticks on the feet. And we escape in Thursday afternoons again.

We escape in Thursday afternoons with little sin and much redemption. We escape in the mind, and in the soul. Dissolving the reality in hues, in fantasies, in colourful, hellish lies. We escape with much glimmer in the eye, much gloom in self-pity. Much ecstasy in an afternoon of living, and dying and giving birth again.

We escape with no love. We escape without a promise. We escape with the distances kept and with words broken. Swimming away in oceans. Flying in empty air. Digging the earth. Getting far and far away.

We escape with little faith. With little trust. But we escape again. We will escape in Thursday afternoons again.