Lost track of reality. I think that’s what it is.
Invariably the perfect time to leave.
I brush my teeth with the water running.
Everyday is one question.
something’s gonna happen.
If I have to die by this sword I’ll live by it.
In the name of art.
Pretty much have nothing to say.
Without a cushion.
A clean shaven aura.
Or each hair plucked until contented.
Compulsory heed to a back seated view.