s. of c.
As I slept fully clothed, a single button came undone. This is beauty. This is not beauty. Lack of circulation in the chest; the incubation of arthropods begins. I feel cold. The seasons change uncomfortably yet beautifully; leaves slip from their trees. Loss. A romantically tragic state of affairs. I watch the change remotely; I am slipping as well. I am afraid of silence. I watch the change with appreciation, but also with rage. We speak of beauty. Happiness. Unity. Do we believe our words? Do I believe my words? We are unable to believe our words, and yet we speak them regardless.
Elevators. I ride them masochistically - my only masochistic tendency. Or so I would like to believe. My sexual identity crisis therefore lies in a machine. Make it go to the bottom floor and jump just as it starts. Airtightness, centrifugal force; the horrifying flashbacks they induce, and your own fantasies of failed suicide attempts.
Vulnerability. The erosion of cliffs. Partially opened eyes. Clearness of mind. Epiphany. A heavenly argument to hold your pathetic self over all else.
Elevators. I ride them masochistically - my only masochistic tendency. Or so I would like to believe. My sexual identity crisis therefore lies in a machine. Make it go to the bottom floor and jump just as it starts. Airtightness, centrifugal force; the horrifying flashbacks they induce, and your own fantasies of failed suicide attempts.
Vulnerability. The erosion of cliffs. Partially opened eyes. Clearness of mind. Epiphany. A heavenly argument to hold your pathetic self over all else.