...
I’m writing all aforementioned while sitting on the edge of the building, in the silhouette of the morning sun. A waft of breeze departs me from the dreariness, unhinged. I found myself in and out of a tidal wave, as if drowning is the only way to stay afloat.
It all serves, too difficult to confess.

In susurration, the landscape exhales something in the color of trees, the temperature last night, and the slant of daylight.

How carried I was (still am) by the unexpected field we encountered, the confidant dialogue we built, the emotional walls we broke. There is a part in my brain that grief won’t grow. Summer in Cangyuan was not lachrymose. The lyrics of Under the Flying Clouds alludes every one of those who are too heavy for me, whom I can’t let go of.

I was not ready for my unscheduled departure from nowhere to nowhere. Many were the tears shed by me in my last adieus to a place so much beloved, and to everyone who makes the place the place.

Do I continue the same, unconscious of the pleasure or regret I occasion, insensible of any change in those who walk under my shade?

I stare at those dark markings above,
Knowing how tired I am.

There's a fetid vibration humming
Through my bones,
Through my blood,
Through my every thought.

I'm so exhausted,
Yet I can't sleep.
I'm so exhausted
That the only pill
That could put me to sleep
Is a stray bullet.

There's a rancid susurration chiming
Through my flesh,
Through my bones,
Through the very essence of my coil.

I'm so tired
And in need of sleep.
I'm so tired
That even the cold steel
Of the train tracks
Welcomes me
As the only pillow
I can see myself able
To rest my head upon.

There's a rotten pulsation howling
Through my blood,
Through my bones,
Throughout.

I'm so drained
That an eternity of sleep
Just wouldn't do
Anything...
My only solace
Are the minute finger prints
That echo a memory of starlight
On a darkened ceiling.