I want to get home so that I can sleep for 17 hours with my mouth hung open so wide you’d mistake it for a black vortex where planes and people and boats and Ameillia Earharts go mysteriously missing and it petrifies the shit out of you that these things exist on this planet if you think about it for too long your eyes beady and blending into the dark of your bedroom or I want to jump out of my window and die or run up and down the four flights of stairs in my shitty apartment complex until I feel the muscles and tendons and bloody pink strings in the meat of my thick thighs burn and come to life and the fat rupture and break apart beneath my skin, or maybe I can just run a regular marathon but that’s so fucking boring that I would rather gouge out hollows between my ribs with a spoon because why the fuck would I want to run in a straight line, I want to run up and down and zig and zag and left and right and upside-down and on my head and with my legs tied up behind my back and at the speed of light like the energy-never-dies organism that I am, all that I am really comprised of, the bare bones of what this body is broken down into in actuality, except I swear to fucking God I better die one day