| 2:47 am bullshit |
| knowing exactly who. what. when. where. the sketchy charcoal day-to-day image riddled with eraser marks slashed through any last hope of the why. envisioning the eyes, the hands, the small of the back. surely there is more than this some higher purpose an animus to my being scraping with gnawed tips to dirty hands at the once-white walls of this. unsure of anything. but this doubt, my soul. |