you allow yourself this little mercy. a few words to the aether. you are weak. you disguise your weakness with arrogance. you disguise your weakness in humility. you are not confident. you are not humble. you are a cipher. you dress in love and opinions. it is simply fashion and repugnant to you. the objects are solid and deserving and your feelings are a disservice because you are uncertain. you are barren. you cannot accept sympathy though you desperately want. and that is why.
everything becomes more terrifying daily as if you are coming closer and closer to something sublimely real. not even the pyrrhic victory of solipsism is open to you anymore. the idea of an early death rationalized mistakes. the reality of it stares into the funhouse mirrors of memory and the alien reflection is at turns comic and sobering. caricature and grotesque. you are permitted to flinch. that is all.
no art. no craft. no skill. no land. no progeny.
but after all, it is all you can do not to laugh aloud. just in case someone can hear.
and when you're alone. and, if you look in one direction for a moment too long, your eyes start to water.
your muscles tense
you look away and away