first quarto.

bred in anthills, buried on shores. there was never a middle ground for our grand picnics. she's the shroud of turin stigmata against the eigenlicht behind my sleepless eyelids. the weather is persistently seeping into my skin and i'm a coagulating mess of the person i once was. around you i could stomp on eggshells and around you i could have dead worlds revolve. fell in love with the canadian gothic farmhouse fallacy. the tip of my tongue is my biggest traitor. there is no tailor talented enough to sew me the visage i want to wear. there is no house large enough to rival the domestic vacancy in my bones. what repels you; i eagerly await it. what enthralls you; i am actively seeking to destroy it. it saddens me that we are all sacks of bones and sinew and absurdly innocent egos and dove-like, frail and frigid prides.

this vastness will be my one and only.

with air like fiberglass and your system like a swarm.

run like the wind with the world rushing away beneath our feet, feeling the onslaught of soft summery air against our faces. run, like we used to when we were young with pinwheels in our hands and with the sunset on the horizon, racing each other home without a care in the world. run without a pause for breath or a hesitation of momentum, run like we did when we were sweet and young and made of quicksilver because right now, there are bounding wolves snapping at our heels.

stay smart, stay sharp, stay lethal. and don't let your shadows stray in this triboluminescent storm.