Tag Archives: Prose

Gloom Boys in Natural Blue

I have candy floss over my eyes, and no one can ever take that away from me.

I’m a double dare away from jumping into the clouds and getting lost in heaven, and even though their motionless lips tell me otherwise, imploring that the despondent sun will burn my frail skin and my charred cape will drag me back down into the ground, I’ll simply fly over them and defy what it means to be human.

For being an angel is not made of mere matchsticks and febriculic feathers, rather, it is the catastrophic sensation of breathing in your existence from your lungs and never letting it go, holding your oxygen in so tight that your chest will hurt, and tasting the very molecule that the wind is built up of, all before exhaling heavily and letting others share the light that passed the very chambers of your symphonic heart, and inhaling that decadent love once more like it’s the only sugar high you need.

I’ll be dancing a hundred footsteps as I reverently play the halo’s mellifluous beat around my head over and over again, but I shall never get tired of laughing and listening, and the glow never fades, the glow never coalesces into a darker retrospect of aspirations and bad habits, the glow is etched at the very back of my confounded head and if I close my eyes and wish a little softer, I can see pastel whispers floating and resonating behind my dreams, smiling quietly as it tells me fairy stories about twill reveries and acrylic oneirism.

Will you tell me that much? Will you beg in blazing yellow and speak in purple hand grenades, waking up again when the water parks detonate and soothing water splashes everywhere? This is not my gloomy lullaby meant to be kept under hushed tones and clandestine affinities, buried under the bones of ‘92, rather it is an everlasting caprice that is meant to be jubilantly shouted from the rooftops, until the nightingales and mynas and bluejays and hummingbirds mimic the colours in my eyes and echoes back a chromatic rainbow to be chased.

Am I not making any sense, or is the semblance of my self-optimistic throes withdrawing like violent ocean waves? It is not their fault, and it certainly isn’t mine. It’s yours. It’s all yours. This nonsensical tirade making me backlash the usual defamation that is my wretched soul, making me passionate for what used to be desert sand and black light, now efflorescent flowerbeds and ultraviolet ecstasy, making me smile and laugh childishly at the most fickle of things like a madman staring limerently into the cornflower moon. You let a playful cyclone into my bedroom while I was sleeping, and it ravaged my closet and spun me all the way to your window until I was sickly dizzy, and you held your hand out to steady me and pulled me in, winking cheekily at the cyclone and returning its breezy grin before waving it goodbye.

Now that I’m here, will you promise to keep me? Airplane conversations and clustered entertainment isn’t enough to leave me amused. Are you laughing at my sadness yet? Are you performing odes along to me mournfully singing about the underhanded depression that makes me mad all the time and fucks my worried flurried mind up when the night is young and makes me go down the long road home? I’m a car crash that you can’t ever look away from, and I can’t ever look away from you. But don’t follow me to the site of the wreck. If your favourite set of stairs is the one up to my room, piece together the trail of love notes I left in the kitchen that say it all, and when you find me, I won’t ever have to let you go up. Let’s be lucky people, you and me.

Amid tantrums and crybabies, you’re nothing but rare. I may not be a warrior and you may think I’m the worst, but I know I don’t have to sleep alone again. So won’t you stay awake, stay awake for me? If you’re singing about la-la-la-love, my tune is more to the beat of a la-la-la-lobotomy. You’re my yellow lovely jealousy, in natural blue and viridian green memories, I’m losing my mood in a late night phone call, shading everything else from silver to pink to hiding under porches and craving territorial phantasms, it doesn’t matter. My common sense is powerless when you speak, and I’m not royal but I’m stupid for you, and 11:11 can go away because I don’t wish for anything else. I’m tired. You’re tired. Let’s be tired together. It’s more fun that way, don’t you think?

I have gloomy clouds over my eyes, and only you can ever take that away from me.

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Ash & Tongue

Ash is just a word, but why does it taste so ironically bitter in my mouth? Does it hurt to say it, because the conflagrating embers originated from my pharynx, tactlessly ignited after I accidentally swallowed phosphorous nitrate and it corroded against my sandpaper throat and set me on fire? Who would kiss a person with a mouth this filthy? Even the most affectionate of mothers turn their backs away from my chapped sooty lips, bleeding of halitosis and ashes and lies lies lies.

There it is, that word again, pulling my voice under hell and waking me up when I’m having the sweetest dream in my acerbic existence. The exit signs are glowing softly in delicate overtones, yet my bloodshot eyes perceive it as an uproarious neon scream, blinding my eyes, deafening my sight, blackening my vision. The water’s getting colder, I’m caught up in the rip, and my footing has slipped away. I’m swimming, no, drowning in the hazy fumes, dizzy from the medication-addled ozone, and still I could not hear a single truth amid all the false accusations.

He was a man until you destroyed him. You were a girl before I desecrated you, cautiously building you up brick by chalkdust brick, all the while as I’m hiding away the solitary intention of vulgarly demolishing the body that is your temple. And it was all too late for you when you found out. Did you survive all the devastation I caused and rose up from the rubble like a newly-reborn phoenix? Or have your devout worshipers fled the havoc and left you suffocating and buried under all the debris and ashes? Ash is just a name I used to call in my sleep, but why…why does it taste so painful between my teeth?

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Chase Atlantic

For you, I chased down atlantic until it was drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, you were thirsty.

Xans, Oxy, gram, adderall, molly, vicodin, ketamine, codeine, amphetamine, heroin, every medication legal and illegal you selfishly overdosed on like it’s the sweetest candy, drugs and money fucking everything up, riding the waves, breathing in the ozone layer and craving the vaporous atmosphere, until all you could hear are birds singing at midnight and all your blank glazed eyes could see where pink shadows coalescing in the basement and the sound of your own synesthetic undersea voice, sewn up into crude stitches before it shatters soundlessly against the restless pastel ghosts; and you find out you were uncomfortably lying on your back in the bedroom floor all along, staring at the unlit ceiling dripping what you thought were your own tears but turned out to be rainwater, dial tone screeching your garbled songs, trying to call nobody at half past four in the morning, worn-down carpet igniting the smoke alarms with your interminable vices. I could only wish to hell that I was there to put it out.

There was a certain elegant delicacy in your tactlessly constructed words, soft beatnik aspersion and aggressive indie slurs romancing and entrancing my chilled spine, humming saxophone amid the alluring amalgamation of incoherent voices intertwining together into a strange, tangible, panicking tranquil. It was an art form in itself, inimitable, one of a kind, scattered accentuation your personal intricate signature. Every careless lilt about the dangerous pseudonymous girls you slept with last night, Angie, Cassie, Roxy, and the pill-popping pharmacists you’ll hold up with a gun as soon as the sun hits tomorrow. All these unsettling courtesies set in three parts of pastel grey and explicit roses, the dalliance and the nostalgia of everything, you were speaking in a foreign language only the truly sick in the head could properly understand, and the way you talked about all the mental pressure and self-esteem and choking anxiety so goddamn beguilingly, the way you talked about addiction as if you weren’t an addiction in itself, the way you just fucking aren’t, it got me overdosing on the panoply panache and sovereign shit on your bedside, but I was so into it.

How many times have you made my pulse beat when it was no longer mine? Every single afternoon, I wake up with a stabbing jolt like a guillotine’s rope pulled tight against my throat, gasping and desiring desperately for more, more of your prevarications. It was a talk show tactic, and you were the host telling me to talk slow and tell no lies, and I was your prize trophy, spilling my secrets and picking my battles cautiously, even though I knew that you were probably lying to me all along. The world was on your shoulders, angels hissing temptations under your skin, and we danced to the beat of your laughter and talked endless miles of film spiels about friends and no friends, gravity and good vibes, church walls and dancing in the dark with the devil, indiscretions and junkie stories high on adrenaline and dopamine, driving too fast and run over by the cops and swimming and thrashing in paradise until we’re so much higher than before, and everything was rhapsodic…until you hit the trigger and got me begging on my bleeding knees again. I’m scratching my nails, shivering madly, abusing my liver, and tearing the veins off my dead-ass heart as you killed my sanity, and baby I was only 23.

I’m obsessive. You said hold your breath, you’ll save me from the fading injections and we’ll run away right here to the underside of the world, and I won’t need to miss you and your anchor tattoo. And fuck it, but I believed all your twisted promises so fervently. I didn’t expect to fall instantaneous victim for such a scrupulous stratagem, this alternative relativity of drugs and parties not my accustomed niche, fucking up this whole thing. I was married to the screaming voices that serenade me everyday and haunt me every night, and I was theirs to render completely deaf into freedom; until you came out of nowhere and divorced me from the nightmares, and you incarcerated me—you made me even worse. You’re a psychopathic fringe wearing a smile on your face and holding a knife in your hand, you’re becoming a work of art. You don’t look too sane when you act like that, and babe, you won’t live too long with a mind like that. I was always fastidious about the taste of serotonin that I place against my lips, but even though it’s fire I’m kissing now, I’ve already been burnt, I fucking have. And I love counting the cigarette stains in my fragile marred skin, sepia-shaded nicotine tattooed permanently between my fingertips, branding me with your whispered name. My parents say I’m crazy, but I only wanna be buried six feet under your bed, ready to meddle about and smoke the cancerous stars away with you anytime. They say be rational about these things, but I stopped being reasonable the moment I listened to your drugstore symphonies and drowned in your cheap perfume. This chemical destruction is beautiful. I’ll keep it up, and I’ll keep riding the waves, crashing into you once more. And why stop at all? Okay is all I know right now. Mama I’m sorry, but reality’s boring.

For you, I’ll chase down atlantic until I’m drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, I’ll be thirsty for your eyes.

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Sometimes

Sometimes, things break. Sometimes I break them and I’m unable to fix them anymore. Sometimes I dream about the mistake that I’ve done for consecutive weeks at an end until I decide that a hundred sleepless nights is better than being forever plagued by fucking nightmares. Sometimes, people notice the madness I’ve become and tell me to simply let it go and move on with my life, like that would be magically effective somehow. Sometimes I listen. Most times I don’t. Sometimes I don’t say sorry even though I caused an irreparable amount of damage, and I always get blamed, which is only fair sometimes. Sometimes I promise that I’ll change and replace what I can, and clean up the mess that I made. But that never works out, somehow. Sometimes it hurts me to see what I’ve done, and sometimes it hurts other people too. I’m always fucking things up constantly, and some of these sometimes are gradually turning into an always. Though sometimes, in a very blue moon sometimes, I fight back and rise against it, defeating the odds and putting back what I broke, fixing what I can, saying my apologies, being the better man, going against myself and everything I’ve always been. And when that happens, sometimes I’m actually happy. Sometimes, I’m stupidly hopeful. And sometimes, I think that I’ll always be okay.

But I never am.

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Mary’s Counting Dead Sheep Again

Mary had a little dream
Her eyes were blank and cold
And everywhere that Mary went
The beasts were sure to go…

~*~

Another night spent where there’s nothing but wasted thoughts arbitrarily presenting itself behind my star-sewn eyelids, slaughtering and slandering what little is left of the fleecy drowsiness that I stared the myriad astral bodies into. Horizons blend from honeysuckle sunsets into a velvety-rich midnight, every jaded memory and faded remembrance lying somnolent on my bed, and activated by the flick of an overused lamp switch. Nondescript chagrin is pressing softly at the back of my inundated throat; later on I’m aware that this force will grow until I begin to choke and fail to intake oxygen. For now, I exhale tiredly. The weight of the world trails behind my breath and sinks in the disturbed dust, kicking up old resentments.

I feel vexed. I shouldn’t be trusted to live up to the chimerical expectations that everyone has written down for me in indelible ink, as if it was the byzantine code that would unlock my stubborn rusted heart if they sharpened their blunt needles and tattooed it under the layers of my diaphanous flesh, into my clenched and straining muscles. It hurts, doesn’t it? The bared grins sneer unsympathetically, claws holding me down with incontestable strength, and it’s all I could do to complacently nod, cautiously wary of the glinting guillotine that’s dangling only inches away from my stiffened neck. I’m merely a plaster-cast mind, deranged and cracking under the pressure of the tattered cassock’s final judgment, and someday they will unsheathe me and mock my abstract art.

Despite the vainglorious efforts, painstaking hands filling in the voided gaps with purified liquid gold won’t fix me. It may look to be a desirable effect; yes, and perhaps it would do me good to have a little bit of luminance in the bare, simple vessel I questionably call my body. But in the end it’s nothing but a deceitful playact, an illusion of smoke and mirrors, fragrant cerise roses beneath the ravenous mucilage monster waiting for dear sweet Mary to reach out her delicate hands and get her cherry blonde locks entangled in the lethal thorns. And I do not wish to be darling strawberry-cheeked Mary, adored and oh-so glorified by everyone, yet playing the unfortunate lifeless victim in the end. I won’t be the one being grieved over, I won’t be at the receiving end of the sword; rather, I’ll be the merciless hand holding the ax and wiping the poison off her pallid blue lips.

And where does the verdict of the counseling jury lie, staring down upon me condescendingly with my indelible inked-on vices and gaping neck wounds from grazing the guillotine blade and the inevitable tempered gold patching up my shattered bones, as I hide the bloody murder weapon behind my back and cross my broken fingers, still tasting little Mary’s most saccharine sin and feeling the prickling sensations dig deep into my engraved palms? Will they immediately claim me guilty? Or is my goading charisma enough to get the edacious wolves begging for my forgiveness to save the hunt for another day? The questions hang from my pastel ceiling dreamily, yet the answer rests in my lurid nightmares, I know. I know. For now, I hold my breath and slowly close my star-sewn eyelids, counting the wasted thoughts dragging into another night spent and another soul selling out. One, two, three, four, five…

~*~

…They followed her when she woke up
She woke up, she woke up
They crept into her fragile heart
And made its beating stop.

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The Game Played Right

Is there anyone who can make me see?
Help me breathe
Is there anyone who can make me feel alive inside?
Sink or swim is all I know tonight
Well take me to the bed, it feels so right
Wake me up…

~*~

I keep on lying. The silent pieces remain unapologetically in my lips, melting and melding together and apart, clashing like shades of blue and gold, until my smiles are mutated and my bated tongue is in shreds. Fear is an embrace I’ve learned to take upon myself, selling myself short to it, buying away the final remaining original thoughts I’ve slaved over in myriad sleepless nights until I’m a-la carte. Change is to blame for the causeless effect, and I’m asking for more from what can’t be taken away from me, cutting corners and targeting the contrition with a bolted gun, as if that would solve my problem. Would that open the deadlocked box of hope, containing those transient reminiscences of what used to be faith, keeping my wrists from giving itself up to bladed handcuffs and abrading ropes?

No, because it’s been open all this time. I’m merely pretending that it’s fully out of grasp, stuffing the sunshine in a pocket with a hole, then feigning remorseful surprise when I grasp the cloth and fail to feel its reassuring outline. I won’t get away, just as the moon can’t break away from its cruel mistress, no matter how hard it tries. Dependence requires sustenance, never mind if one’s getting hurt, never mind if one’s just wasting time and lightyears, never mind that there’s someone who sucks on the cigarette and there’s one who gets snuffed out in the ashes of its former companions, and both are slowly dying with each harmful, addicting, nicotine drag. Perhaps it’s better to move on, burn my house down with the lighter, and stab a flag on top of a desolate mountain, letting the frigid Arctic breeze pierce my lungs, reminding me that I’m dead inside, day by day, every single night.

Yes, the truth hurts worst when you’re lying on your back in a hollowly-carved bed, watching the tick of the sagging clock draw frowns on your dripping beige ceiling, the crude notches on the bedpost your only substitute for a calendar, not even the gathering dust on your windowsill keeping track of your blunt existence, but is that really such a bad plotline to read into? After all, I’m a mere instrument of conflict, and if I do not fulfill my function, I have no point, and dull instruments are of no use to anyone but the junkyard. So, what’s the point but pointlessness? What is there to release from arrogance, from selfishness, from egocentric human needs and desires, shallowness sucking away the will to speak in freedom, constantly starving for lust and lusting for starvation and dying from either loneliness or hunger in the end?

Give me that. Give me an answer that would morph my vulgar counterfeit laughter back into a purely genuine jubilance, give me a reply that would wash away the contracting fallacies in my conflicted mind and make my craving lecherous soul finally taste the decadent truth, give me a statement to swim in and sink under as I ponder deeply upon it and spend all my cashed-in stars to figure it out until I may finally repose in peace, give me an oratorical rhetoric that would drag me out of the hands of the angels in the ambulance and shock my heart into sinus rhythm, give me something, anything at all that would set this hellish perpetual carousel in a dead jolting halt and wouldn’t throw me off the cutthroat ride, give me—give me what I want. Yet, is what I want really what I need?

Never. Because in this reality, the parallel cruelty prevents any chance of a perfect alignment or even a destined intersection between any limits, and it’s all we can do to keep walking in the thin line and keep a painful positiveness, because backtracking to the negatives would devour us whole, render us irrational, and count us as impossible. Yet, despite knowing all of those and sharing such meaningless contrivances to the eyes that refuse to perceive and the ears that refuse to listen, I still want you to lie to me. Lie to me until your lips are mutated and your bated tongue is in shreds, lie, lie, lie, until the wrong turns right, until forward becomes backwards, until the truth is the ultimate lie, and I’ll gladly do the same to you. After all, we’re just doing what we need to do. We’re just doing all we can do.

~*~

These self inviting auras
Made me bring out the sun
Your body’s played its role
It’s ruined my game
And now I can’t believe I’ve done it
But somehow I still feel
But I still feel, so far gone…

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Small Talk

“If I die now, you’ll be fine, wouldn’t you?” Came the morbid question, startlingly from out of nowhere, the tone rather earnest and solemn, as the rest of her contradictory body moved to pack up her bright clothes and stunning makeup in preparation for the party she was going to attend in that very evening; a glamorous night out in the city hotel for endless hours of revelry and colourful strobe lights and dancing with her inebriated friends.

“Not if I die first.” Was the equally-morbid devil-may-care reply, swift and acerbic, passed off in a jovial manner, accompanied by an amused grin and a playful hand slap, as he continued to stare jadedly at the glaring screen of his computer, thinking about the bottles of whiskey and cola that he secretly stashed away at the very back of the fridge, to be consumed later on at midnight in his bedroom with some crisps; a little party of his own.

They both smiled at each other quietly and let the conversation slide, and they went about with their business. They knew neither one was joking. And they knew they couldn’t do anything about it. So they just pretended to laugh.

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Weightless

Make believe that I impress
That every word by design turns a head
I wanna feel reckless
I wanna live it up, just because
I wanna feel weightless
Cause that would be enough…

~*~

Right now, I think I’m alright. My orbit is spinning steadily, caught in constant motion against the gravity of greater stars, keeping me from flying away and colliding with other astral bodies. The stars I rely upon are simply breathtaking. I deign to taste their enthralling radiance, but I’m aware of the impossibility of such a foolish notion, so I simply content myself to revolving around it lightyears away, thanking it silently for keeping me in line as I admire it from afar. But sometimes, for no discernible reason, the gravity weakens, and for a moment I break and drift away, attempting to pull back to my tether, terrified that I may never be able to bring myself back to that gravity, to the only thing that’s keeping my from crashing and vanished into oblivion within a black hole, forever lost in the infinite void. Hydrogen flares in my atmosphere and almost burns me up, as I strain and strain and strain back to that star, to that planet, to my solitary source of hope and light that always falls out of reach, to no avail. Then, to my great relief, the gravity slowly returns, returns to take me back in its reassuring grasp, returns to make me feel safe, and I can breathe easy again, comforted in its halcyon force. But as I continue to spin around the star, I wonder when the day will come when I finally drift too far away, too far for the gravity to reach, too far for the star to save me, too far gone. Within me, an earthquake deepens the rift, spreading veins of crevices and cracks, making prominent, irreparable faults, my molten core’s coriolis barely holding me in. And I wonder, I do wonder, which one will win the unwinnable race, which event horizon will occur first to end me. Will I fall away or break apart?

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Static Sessions

And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive…

~*~

It’s rather strange and desensitisingly nerve-wracking, standing up there with shivering knees, under the judgment of glaring spotlights and hanging magenta lamps, and past the scrutinising pupils of a million watching stars. I do not feel like my own concrete entity, merely a disheveled apparition trapped in a foreign body. The amp screeches—jeeringly, it seems. I momentarily blanch. What the hell am I doing?

Perspiring profusely, trembling hands holding the gibberish lyrics to an unfamiliar forgotten song and an impatient crackling microphone, the beginning intro of the acoustic guitar sounds like a banshee’s scream that’s prompting my knotted larynx to begin making even an inkling of a noise. Quivering, quivering, quivering; dreadful hesitation and a near-death anxiety that wrings the delirious butterflies out of my stomach in an icy-cold freeze. An infinitesimal moment of silence. A skip of a heartbeat. A suffocating breath held until it coagulates. A spill of acherontic reluctance spilled down catatonic spines before one jolts and realises in shock that, surprise surprise, my parched mouth is actually producing sound!

Thus the song proceeds, with or without me. It’s up to me to chase after it’s vivacious footsteps. My voice is no longer my own, simply a phantom illusion; I barely feel it rising up and down, strumming the musical bars to the best of its abilities. Everything tastes like stereo static; clapping and cheering amid guitar and tambourine amid the anxious symphonies I relayed. The quaint scenario tangibly intensifies into a steady culmination, vertical horizons alighting into spontaneous combustion. Steadfast certainty underhandedly replaces the oscillating nervousness within me, pastel assurance slowly seeping in my ticking aegan-washed bones and strengthening every fibre of my abandoned sensibilities.

I find myself closing my eyes and loosening my grip, my driftwood soul getting pulled in the undertows of the euphoric moment. I can barely hear my own voice anymore, and I do not hear the crowd at all. Soprano, baritone, octaves, trebles, notes and rhythms and senselessness and song, they’re all that envelops me right now, my solitary company in this madness of a world. Raging fire burns in my emotions, thawing the glaciated blood in my veins, warming up the frostbitten angels barely holding my terse heartstrings together, bringing oxygen back to my perforating pulmonary flow; and nothing else matters anymore, only me and the music, the music and I.

The interlude swells into a deafening crescendo, and my frizzling neurons go off like fourth of July fireworks, showering the sky with brilliant sparks. It’s infinity on repeat, infinity in my teeth, infinity rushing low, infinity on an all-time high. This feels fucking amazing. What was there to be afraid of? Why had I been terrified all this time of such a ludicrous notion? Perhaps if I had steeled myself sooner, my brillo-pad songs would be less abrasive, and the ticking clock would’ve been on my side. But no matter, for I shall not dwell on the resentment of the past that keeps me embrangled within incarcerating doubt and merciless agony. Rather, I will focus on the now. This is me, doing what I never dared to do, doing what I’ve always wanted to do. I’m doing this for them, my beautiful divine motivations, though more importantly, I’m doing this for me, and for me alone.

The set comes to a slowing halt, the prospect tinging me with hints of sorrowful melancholy, and the audience bursts into polite applause, but the enraptured sensations linger still; and as I amble off the stage, I still find a soft lone melody humming whimsically at the back of my mellowing incandescent mind. It’s over, I sigh out to my palpitating lungs, to my shaky footing, to my disbelieving mind, attempting to calm my frantic pulse back into a metronome lullaby. But it will never be quite over, wouldn’t it? I ponder with a secret smile. I finally found my voice. I only hope I don’t lose it again. And I can only hope so hard it hurts that I don’t keep it to myself anymore.

~*~

And I don’t want the world to see me
‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s meant to be broken
I just want you to know who I am…

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Jealous Butterflies and Ochre Moth Wings

We’re just two jealous souls breaking envy against the tidal waves, bleeding out elaborate cesspools fervently, and leaving soundless mouths agape for the stained porcelain butterflies to enter, hoping that the fragile incipient creatures would exit our perfidious throats undaunted and provide our dilapidated larynx with an ameliorated song to sing. Yet we only manage to choke on their flimsy polychrome wings and cough them out unceremoniously before we suffocate, the meek and hapless butterflies bent in twisted angles, traces of leaden dust leaving residues of faithful solemnity in our tinted lips, tongues whispering the painful words that no sane mentality dares to hear, destroying the only scant chances for our treasonable prayers to receive heaven.

Then, after all the nascent vituperation that ensconces our quiet bones like an impaired skylight, where would we be? Plucking burnt tawny moth wings out of wilted candle wicks in the destitute hopes that they shall acquiesce the same way those quaint looking glass butterflies did, yet never realising that there is no fraudulence nor varied substitute for that abstract tessellation, that modicum of infinity, that metamorphosed dimension that those nebulous lepidopterons accumulate and exhale. Recovery cannot be replaced, and a replacement cannot be recovered. Amid the failing maiden glow and taffy-stretched daydreams, there is only maligned reverie by maimed lightweights, attempting to endow the subtler nuances of this life a vaguer and more coruscant definition.

Against the jade-eyed desires that we fought ever so vigilantly with inured devastation and bargained discrepancies, against the covetous recidivism and the elaborate secondhand lies that come tucked along within it like opening a painted russian nesting doll, against the prehensile avarice ascending above everything and drowning us in its remorseless cyclone, our jealous souls stand resolutely falling apart. There are no more iridescent enamel butterflies to count prismatic wishes on, no more ashen moth wings to cling onto fragments of faith for, no more candid humility and hackneyed selflessness and altruistic implications, only an imminent invidia and bilateral resentment. Reality ensues, and chaos along with it. Where will our lost nightmares dream now?

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