I’m writing,

I’m writing

I’m writhing

I’m driving

I’m flying

I’m sighing

I’m tying, up all the loose ends to make a knot which sits inside my stomach for days when Im too nervous to speak or stand or swim out of this crevasse that I have jmped into.

I’m drying off the sweat that has made itself present on my lips and on my forehead, dripping down my back.

I’m crying out in joy once this day is over so I can retreat into subtleness and ambiguity, just for a moment.

I’m prying open a suitcase of lost secrets in the hope that I can understand my thought process every night.

I’m in the process of dying, we all are. when we live we are still dying, even when we are living it up we are still dying.

We should be Dyeing our shirts black to mourn the loss of every soul that ever walked this earth.

I’ll start with buying the shade.

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