Im too afraid we're substituting free love for free WiFi, changing lives by white cardboard shop signs in the green oaks window of a strip mall pile of bricks and *******.

I woke up at 8 am with a crick in my neck, but the world woke up frustrated with a wedge in its back. I'll fall asleep tonight to jon krakauer stories and they'll go unconsciously alive with severed names. It's like a scene from 1984 that got forced into a brave new world and made a ******* child with ***** blood, still just as red as the rest of us.

With dulled minds and calloused hands,
insomnia is inherent instead.

The lot's full but the cars are empty, and the white lines are blurred when it's raining drops of liquid distortion, perverted by man and no longer pure. Jesus' paper face is scotch taped to the glass pane of an apartment's sliding door; blocking a clear view of reality. But what is real and what is reality if we're all just defined by guesses? Just the rough estimates of what should be, or of what is by those who lived before us. And died before us.

Nothing ever lasts, but it's here and so are we.
And that's our stability.