stood up. against faint lines disconnected from everything else. fuck. whilst i breathe in the aftermath shrugs, i could not help myself to the spoils. everything is a distortion. i do not hear myself. and then, it makes an appearance. worrywart. ground yourself. the cold is coming. freezing. ceilings broken, revealing unsky'd clouds, homeless on the run and it supports the pressure tanks from informing me of the subtle shenanigans these contemporaries made. the artform was beyond recognition. faith leaps took itself for a swim, leaving me thoroughly confused for the brief minutes when everything resolved to a blur. i cannot see ideals. i cannot see the principle of comfort. but i am in the very confines of effortless freedom. headlights, navigate me. i am lost in the apparent shiver, everyone, shared, to sleep through to the next day. don't wake me up.

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