the greatest sculptors of fiction don't even know themselves.
which explains the self obsessed self absence.


things get different when you start planning routes of escape. when you start wondering where all the comets are. to crash you. to blend you into the ground with fire. so you can begin again when the molecules take root for another time. I listen for us. but I can't hear the songs anymore. I know it means nothing. I know it never meant anything.


"you deserve a good life.
and I'm going to do my best to give it to you."



it's hard to pinpoint where the pressure collides with my frame.
and it's hard to imagine how the breaking begins on the inside.
when all your color is bleeding on the oustide, running rampant on the streets.
there are no more from here.
If this is the end of the discussion.