There is a ticket that grants you a house in the woods. In this house, the idea is that no one can find you. You construct a new face, a new body. You construct yourself and your new attributes. You cut your hands and get other hands, newer ones, better, modernised. You run away from the dying flame without waiting for the blood to seep into the bucket. You run away from the conversations between guys wearing jeans. You run away from the unsent messages and from the decaying bluebells in the corner of your room. You run away from your father watering plants, and you run away from the diagnosis.

And sure, there will be missing posters, news reporters, and there will be flowers like the bluebells placed on your picture. There will be money funnelled into men with flashlights and dogs. There will be the rush of printed news. There will be your mother and father falling from the floodgates into the untouched casserole. But the name, your name, will stop being. Then the ticket will seem useless. Then the ticket will crumple in your hand, and you will say goodbye to the house, and you will walk away.

Back to the bluebells.