I am imperfect.

A restless spout of tiny words tells me so.


I am inconsequential and incapable

Of creating

That thing that feels so certain in my mind, sometimes.


Like how can I get to that place

When I don’t know where it is and

Will I know if it’s the right place when I get there and

Fuck, where are my keys?


I drink some coffee.

Steaming, black, molten energy that revives and implores me

Up and at ‘em!

Joie de vivre!

Carpe Diem!


My impatient thoughts take me somewhere new,

A future place.

And that spout of tiny words seems so

Inconsequential and incapable

Of interrupting this feeling.

The sun casts waves of light and life across the city

And I notice how utterly and indescribably beautiful everything is.

Faces pinched by icy, still air,

A sky that evolves ever so humbly from grey to blue to pink to black,

The fading sentiment of a love note that started life in a paint can,

Crumbling bricks and bare trees and



I am euphoric.

I greedily consume and thrive off this power source

Until it leaves me again and I am left yearning and wondering

Was it all really so easy?


The voices tell me that there is no solace to be found in

Crumbling bricks and bare trees.

Sensibility and reality (the foes of euphoria)

Remind me that


I am imperfect.


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