You are smoking and drinking and eating your way into oblivion, my friend.
There are four walls that trap you here, now.
But you cannot exist without them to hem you, without them to keep you contained; without the seams you are a wind that courses unbridled and rips through everything it touches.
Feral, I think. Do I think?

There are thin traps.
Melodramatics versus moments of truth.
I have no knowledge of what is truth.
Postmodernism? Give me a break, mind.

You are a creation of your own existence, a creation of your own creations.
Without them you are nothing.
Is this existentialism? I doubt it.
Things are too trite for you to have any conscious knowledge of what that even means.
I am nothing.
I am dancing on glass to quote the mistress, Kane.
Or Mayakovsky.
"The love boat has crashed against the everyday. You and I, we are quits, and there is no point in listing mutual pains, sorrows, and hurts."
Then the revolver came.

I hope you don't go down with a bang.





Tonight my mind is a shroud in front of a moon.
Ticking.