(no subject)
in an empty skull now only inhabiting three-fourths of tissue slowly crumbling at it's peak makes wonder of the kiligrams of thoughts and sensitivity, memories distilled and played back over the chronical years of it's passing. how the processing of all that information, discomfort, dillusionary facades it enlisted and became leaving only the option of transcendalist wrought. the idea of preservation is inevitable at all costs and it costs everything to keep it there, to put it up for the rest of your life in your flea ridden, sleepy hotel with languid hallways illuminated bulb by buzzing bulb, stairs creaking as you gently descend each foot, endless. the walls peeling, inching its way to the stained carpet where you remember where you dropped the wine, where that nine-to-five waitress had sold herself so many times though claiming she'd never go back to that life.