grief
a grieving person never rests. my soul trusts no one. looking backwards, i am still the same. it is strange to feel the opposite of touch
the world's senselessness has started to make sense. i dream under close watch but i can still dream. i am still inspired in an inverse sort of way. passion becomes suffocating. what's left to matter is how much you've suffered, how much of your dreams you've lost. how subject you are to the whims of physical laws. how much of yourself you've fed of yourself into the meat grinder and eaten yourself as art.
it's seasoned well: you must clap yourself on the back. and in your upwards trek you've lost everybody, and don't hope to be found again.