Curated. Pompous and rinsed. I somehow (or on purpose) wrestle with my duality in a dimly lit room after accidentally stumbling into this lonely awareness: never really here, only quieted by the stories of other people. 

Sure, I see those lives as vivid and as a brightly filtered HD photos and I’ve lived long enough to recognize that you have to record the lie to belay the emptiness. 

Instead, I steadily poison myself with hope and cynicism in shakily unequal parts because if I can’t shout to an empty room or whisper softly to a noisy crowd, well, then who am I other than Jack’s Colored Sensory Deprivation? 

Fuck violence. I want silence. And a deeper grave than six wholesome feet. Cats and dogs can dig deeper with motivation, and humans will do worse. For less.