the video game of my body takes this familiar hallway like the opening credits,
on my way to register another log of discontent,
unraveling personal failure to conform real world into wishes.
The moment stumbles in my mind,
already the past, already forgetting,
wasting sweet time trying to explain a feeling that was never even mine to begin with.
Everything tangles so beautifully, take a photo, close and blurry:
profile; it's okay to be ugly to be wild to be dreaming and dying and to have just enough of a cold to make things uncomfortable.
To Make no Sense, no-one quietly knocking again and again. Whispering, Nothing is Everything, I love you but it's always going to be just like this.