music poetry WRITING



Every ounce of energy is poured into fighting the future with the present, but absence of emotion makes it impossible to fight. The soul has been sold, and the body turned into a vessel of brief affairs with endless seconds of nothingness.

Reaching for a self I don’t know how to be is an experience of exhaustion that feels too homeless to touch. Surely you’ve seen them wandering the streets, but they too live beneath roofs; skies much more promising than hollow steeples or demented peoples.

Something is happening within, a mix between acquiescence and effort; trying before quitting, or cohesion before splitting.

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