what am i made of? my mind is so filled with this emptiness. walking down suicide lane, none of these people are my best friend, my best friend who i left at the casino. none of these people are him. I filled the car with a full sized lie and drove for 2 miles with the sun in my eyes the whole time, over some bridge, collated by distance. sentenced to burn in the fortress of solitude. my mother dressed me in the suffering she couldn’t conceal, she was dragged across the sea and made to model a new type of integration. 6 degrees of reparations. Any attempt to repatriate the abyss sinks further into in-formalities; that of the weight blindfolding me into excess paradigms. I collude with the destroyer at night , she always sends me somewhere I end up hungry, feeding on impulse, the story of neglect that wrote it’s way into ritual when there’s nothing left of abject indiscretion. I don’t blame gravity for not being two inches taller. All I ever wanted was somebody to dance with, someone to interpret rhythm with, to share harmony. It’s easy to sabotage the page when it gets too raw, when the bleeding is immediate and you can’t disassociate from your idol’s guarantee, it’s easy to hand the keys over to the reader and say: this is as far as I can take you. There are no limits, but there are laws. The road that corrupts the city. The heartbeat that distributes the poison. tiny tributaries of salvation, that’s what the script is made for, that’s why if you stick to it, you have enveloped the meaning of everything I’ve just written. it’s this way.