i'm too far behind to keep track of the nonexistent narrative. this better be serious. this better be really worth it. or else i'll go lie on the side of the street just to show you foot traffic trampling my bones, under delusions the city swallows whole. getting tired on the ride i buckle my seatbelt up because when i die i want to be awake for it. crossing the street today i couldn't bring myself to look both ways, and still a screeching halt failed to make me feel less pointless. and on your clavicle my eyes will leave a pool of water, suggesting to me that our feelings are all just filler. and so i curse this cold night and all the empty signs. i cannot recall what being warm feels like. and though the stars still shine and i am still alive i can't help but get overwhelmed and disgusted at everything contrived. between the trace amounts of valuable sound spilling from your mouth as you speak i connect the dots and form a poor rendition of a thought, but it's not your fault, it's me, its the fact that i have yet to get a solid grasp on what's important, as opposed to disposable or irrelevant. gain a little control. an accurate hold on the episodes as they unfold. i'll sit and watch our ideas rot is it wrong that i feel at home when i can barely even talk? when there are no words left it will start to make sense. we'll get a sense of what is actually significant.