this is my home. amongst the juxtaposition of letters i am better. one with words and phrases i can compose statements of amazement. fact or fiction my addiction is penned with fruition. jot, note, scribble, scribe, rhyme, write, or read; this is my home and i shall never leave.
I hate this old house. The wood creaks like my old bones. Convictions, dreams, anxieties, estimations, reveries, and intents all burn crimson. I wish I could say the same of this wretched asylum. Nothing ever works at the appropriate moment. The electricity flutters like a bird taking its first flight. I am amazed it is still erect. Every room reminds me of a wasted life, shattered by ill-conceived notions of seamless attachments. For what. For who. For lust. For Love. Or neither. Absolute shell of a home. Absolute shell of a man. Its 3:45pm. Friday. The sun intrudes stealthily through my blinds.
