I left one day, when I thought that I was an alien. The brief pilgrimage to the sky, I have spent passing through Dover Beach and the Wasteland. Barely a life in technicolour, a half-unconquerable soul. The popular nothings dance, eyes so dark within their sockets. The sun looks soporific on their shoulder blades, to the point that we can’t convince ourselves we’re still the same. I wish you could see the veins of earth, pumping beneath the waves. It’s a story I long to write for you- curious but not yet brave. Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth, I am too afraid to disturb the universe. One day we’ll all be stories that get told, told incorrectly. My tale will grow old, so I leave.