Tomorrow is the artist of today. Now breathes later in deep, gasping gulps, summarized by the virtue of consequence. We measure ourselves by that explosion, what is lost and the crater it leaves and the people who live in that hole after we’re gone. Light a cigarette and breath in the emptiness of the sky through your eyes, and sense the loneliness of fire, the exhaustion of ash, and watch smoke escape like a ghxst racing towards heaven.
I’m cursed to never know the line that those who live comfortably walk without hesitation. The illusion of natural and unnatural intention as distinct. Release is like free-fall. Control is like the grave. Neither is real. Anxiety and fear are just desires which have transcended their boundaries, broken proportion, and upset the equilibrium. Not all desires are evil, however; all great desires are. That is perhaps loves greatest beauty: in its most extreme, purest form it remains a virtue. Love, if real, can only make one self-less. Perhaps though, it is only fools who speak of love as something akin to desire.
This and that, buried in the catacombs of self-delusion: sprucing this place up for you. Because I could not tolerate being alone, I shined my shoes and wore a tie.
In finding myself, I locked the door to the world. It opened with lies, not truth.