I must write. I must draw. I have
To sing. I must do these things ev
ery day. Is it the echo of an old f
orce, inertia filling space in a wall
punched out like a person? Am i
The tsunami sweeping up broken
promises and dead contacts, hope
s of douching the land like god yet
always littering wreckage. Is it just
a red-footed chase to nowhere, a
Dream bought in cash in a size to
o small, to be stared at hopelessly,
relentlessly. I buy makeup I don't
know how to use, I follow tutorials
to make coils in my hair that are
n't there, so why not a life? Why
not a dream?
