Why didn't anyone inform me that I would sharpen your knives with my tongue? That I would undress in your shadow. That I would cry on city transit and desire despair above all.

I sit here, in a quiet, quarter-lit room with broken coping mechanisms. Lost in the profound. Writing from the vanguard of violent dreams. I bled the furnace. I lifted the fog. I detailed the temple. Divide my provisions into a seven day schedule and act accordingly.