beating what sparks

pick a set of words and spend an amount of money, link yourself to the feeling you remember. drive the same old route with your eyes closed, blink twice for maybe. fondly forget those shining moments, empty yourself out for the new day. clean clean dirty. this purity is as catastrophic as it is familiar. wait in line for some distance and some seamless transitions.

got a ticket to the desert.

i am not what i think you want me to pretend to be. all these circles collapse on a single hollow center; the ghastly boring shivering truth has no color or taste. i can't dig any deeper than this, i swear. i'll wake up tomorrow and pile on the layers, slowly take the shape of the boys and girls in the young adult novels, talking like i have a voice, walking like i have somewhere to go. and i KNOW this isn't that unusual; i got these fucking decorations secondhand. i'm unoriginal to the point of nausea. but that doesn't mean i can't enjoy a good sinking feeling every once in a while.

i'm. hiding. under cover of silence. tossing out blank hints aimed at the ground. pleading for you to walk on by (please don't) and always come back (stay away). i want what i wish i could recognize and do not want what i see.

acting: kicking newborn habits before they take root. making a show for the imagined.

take a break and don't look so content. okay? half laughing, TURN UP THE VOLUME.