in this plastic dormancy i’ve happened to slip into deeply (yet subjectively), i feel i can finally acknowledge, conceptually, anyway, that your incessant rambling about wrong turns and orange juice with pulp actually raise a convincing argument. of course, i don’t think i would ever openly admit to this in any sense of vocal resonance, but if you could read the inside of my head, unfiltered, you may be pleasantly surprised by the vagabond mentality that makes me tick. i have fallen under the same catastrophic spell that has consumed your golden years with the attempted emulation of summer scents and sundress hearts filled out by tattooed wrists, and chests that beat in tune with the pulsing beams humming their way through the thickness of the east coast heat. i agonize over the fact every single person i know is sidestepping sunsets, cursing the ambiguity of their own beguiling history, as if their new found (last resort) sincerity could somehow still turn “this” all around. i’m still wondering what “this” even is. maybe we secretly covet the allure of being the monster rather than ending up grey and beautiful. maybe we aren’t wicks sparking and knees buckling. maybe this is it