The smoke from your cigarette is forming shapes, you imagine make believe characters of your own.

Headlights of cars passing by are forming shadows on the wall.


The ticking clock disturbs you.

You are your own brain’s little tricks.

Your chapters are a colliding mess.


Your secrets are just time vessels.

You inject yourself with melodies, but it’s a temporary escape.


Your vanes are made of silk, your blood feels like shards of glass cutting through.


Warm feathers cover you, protected by a metal shield.

You mistake your acquaintances as demons.

Your terrors are the ones who keep you company.


Your hands quiver as you write this on a piece of paper that it’s future is to be torn.