Duvet Mountains. I wish I could climb these duvet mountains. Escape the wallpaper that threatens to blind me. Run free of the raindrops and sweat that salivate from the dirty city. I want to breath the clean air of us again, in the glaring sunlight of my rising mania. Instead I lie in wait at base camp, asphyxiated by the notion of my city as a spectre. A spectre haunting my shadow, clanging around behind me. I long for the day when corrupt capitalism stops eating my flesh and drinking my blood dry. When it stops trading in my unions and smashing my health. I dream of jumping from the fiscal cliff and plummeting onto the jagged rocks of endemic crisis perched so majestically below. The sky is falling down, but the louder I squawk, the quicker it comes, descending like a black curtain across the duvet mountains crippling my soul.