Thick with lies I am doused in solitude - a change of events I carry from past to future. Only the bruised mirror of existentialism can open my eyes to a sad truth of careless, reckless, intentional hesitancy. I write with a feeling of morose calm - and force nonsensical vowels on the world as a bittersweet therapy for time to pass. This is a fogged monotony that is inescapable - a promise of mediocre artistry - a love of all things on borrowed time. Sober is well hidden masochism and only we could endure the blood of a daily psychic ache. I climb these steps with urgency, to retrain my own abusive fists, to keep me outside of myself.