A coarse probing, like adolescent fumble. The evacuation of consequence leaves intention and culpability. I’m done for.
Drinking donated foreign beer from bottle and smoking found cigarette, I’m fooling with things. Words and emotions and that. Monotony is the source and the conflict, and there is a difference between this and routine - the guidelines of prose. Finding an angle where there are only no perpendiculars. Morality doesn’t exist without a middle ground, and I have no point of reference.
I count the hours that I might sleep. The martyr burns. Imperial presence on top of an existence, as though I have an importance more than myself myself myself, cracked and split and all dressed up. There are a lot of things to hate.
I can’t be bothered. I had things to say.
She is a divide, breached, opened again. She is somewhere to start and the longing to stop, a forced subject. This is a ladder, a subservient acclimatisation into cooler climes. Holding control by fingertips, never second guessing. One thing to be honest, another deciding what to be honest about. Nothing left to lose, don’t want to end this badly.
This is badly.