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Clumsy. All words. What do you do with them once you become dissatisfied with what they don't have to offer? I spread my arms out to the encroaching air that is purring against the horizon of spacious, desolate sky. If you have nothing to lose or fear or to be afraid to give away, to experience, to happen then fall into it like this: Wide open. This is our language of emotion, like your heart and ribcage, black and gold and torn and perfect and just everything that it is fantastically ashamed to breath. Collapse on it, this stone. Set and hard like math. Well, unspoken math. That's what we are against: the "reputation" of life instead of the humanity of existence and it's history. That is why it's only an illusion and looks like high, intimidating cliffs of indifference. Give me something real, and I won't hesitate to give it in return. Sweetness follows. I'm leaning my head into the natural flow of this traffic while attempting to navigate and intercept you on the moon. Beyond calamity and cowardice, the claustrophobic smoke screen that hides me here crowding out what could be mine, is every game we've ever played, and all I suspect, I've ever wanted.
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