My hands smell like my dog. 

It’s colder than I ever imagined it could be here.

I shouldn’t listen to good music. I can’t handle the potency of the poetry. 

I can’t get over two words. They are shallow and existence. 
Love. Love. Love. 


Benign design.

I would not believe it, if it was anywhere else and anything else. I’ve developed.

But I am no picture, no stop bath will stifle my steady dance towards death. I sleep so much, and so very deep that I’m accelerating the process.

Besides this and that, I reach out for a plan of attack. A reactive man I now am. Playing chess alone in the dark while I read about light and how unbearable being is. I agree, I’m lost within myself. I haven’t been honest in quite some time. It’s pathetic how poor my talents are. They sleep on the floor while I dwell in a comfortable bed, in a very normal space.

I’ve missed.

Wrists are too Easy.

I slit the throat of my youth today, but the blood didn’t devour any despair. I kept eerily calm, though. I tried to immerse my self in the choking, and I chased at all forms that tried to flee away from my innocent consciousness. All I could catch was a callous perspective. A perspective shaped like a twisting dagger, yet its edge was blunt and much too pristine to garner any real respect. I ached to use it already, on everyone and every damned thing. I felt a hotness covering my exposed chest, and my shallow, gurgled breaths caught a rhythm that I’m sure the dead demons would have enjoyed dancing to.

How could I sharpen this dagger if I was already blood deep in debt, dead?