I roll the nylon out across the floor. It is strong enough. I shrug.

I remember the day of the revolution. Now it seems like a dream. Promises of greatness. Many of us believed.

Clouds drift past the hole in the roof.  My hands work the end of the rope automatically. Muscle memory. Done many times. Jack Ketch reborn.

The other end I cast over a beam. My hand shakes, skin and bone. Do something right for once.

Promises. Lies. Maddening. I’ve come to envy those dead.

The stool protests its complicity below me. The noose glides over my head.

Picture is copyright by Scott Wagner.

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