The day holds its claws in like an old, tired whore. It's sweaty, heaving, sagging bosom repulses me to my core and makes me understand my unusual choices just a teensy bit better. This hot ickle day is my mother and I want to be an orphan.

In shaping my inconvenient papertrail, I have embraced an ideal only an orphan could. I have no ancestry to dress myself in, no nation to wave as a spear. To mirror my ever present existence, I shall leave no heritage to tether me, no descendent to trace me back to my crimes. Only my words will succeed me, carrying my conscious will until they bleed into paper. This is a much more adequate immortality then the life of slumbering genes, forever being watered down and diminished with time.

I sit with sparrows in the SEEd plenty trees, waiting for the sun to plummet into the wading pool. The scuttling insects below hold no interest or concern. The white, bespeckled sky of my internal engine holds more to behold than most else. Jesus screams in my ear while I wait impatiently for my lover.

My circular existence holds me up on a marble pedestal, while the lines of foreign ghosts crumble like chalk. This hell is solitary, and I couldn't be happier on it's smooth surface.

Destroy Once Done