These chains are handmade. I am lost and wounded in my own neighbourhood. A black snake is slithering across my lips. Silence is my enemy.

And you transform into a painting
Inside me
That covers my white and weary walls

The smoke of the night has me mourning funerals in my brain, treading through the service until all are seated and I grow numb.

I'm afflicted by the not knowing.

Lucid dreams like electricity, the current flies through me, and in my fantasies I rise above it. And way up there, I actually love it.

It’s the real winter parade. Whoever stays behind loses.

A shadow only the farthest seat can see. It’s the solitude of the spectator.

My eyelids are curtains and, inside, my dark ideas light up. I want to hide them.

A cross on the ceiling. I can't think of concrete things; seems like I am not interested. I do not know how to speak like everyone else. My words are strange and come from afar, from where it is not, from encounters with no one. What will I do when I sink into my wild dreams and can't rise? I'll leave from this hurtful moon and I won't know how to come back. If they’d have found me in the moon, they’d have called me Life. #PersonaNonGrata

Say it once again with feeling, how the death rattle breathing, silenced as the soul was leaving. The deflation of my dreaming, leaving me bereft and reeling. #QuestionMark #EmpatheticHunger