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Contemplating ************ I lie on my crookedly back on a lumpy mattress with curves in all the wrong places, studying the ceiling’s hairline fractures as though they were maps (anywhere, but here) speed bump city crawling with untarred roads leading nowhere, anyway. hopelessness fills the spaces in between alleys fermenting in their own neglect, and cemeteries meet parks, overlapping seeded with broken glass where children once rehearsed futures. junkie-slop spray-painted bridges slump, over lifeless, macroplastic polluted rivers which carry industrial excrement bubbling, past jetty beams surrendering to rot. The city decomposes all around me, above me, below my feet and yet Worst of all, death lives within me. A cigarette hangs from my mouth its ember a minor sunrise. small things are big in a world of defeat... my mind dances with every deep inhalation, as sparks perform their brief ballet then vanish as if rehearsed. Sirens stitch the distance. Dogs growl at the invisible danger lurking at every corner in this town. Bins rattle like an embodiment of the anxious conscience. Somewhere, an ambulance [tragically] edits and prolongs a life. Disharmony harbors inside these walls all the same, acting as conductor to the choir of braintot vices and the ever persistent peace disruptor clock (they never stop) tick, tock tick, tock... small metronomes with a destructive appetite. My mindmaps catalogue the abandoned districts of my own interior: bridges never crossed, letters unsent, texts ghosted, ambitions weathered down to bottom of the can, faded graffiti. Desire does not announce itself with trumpets. It arrives like municipal decay - quiet, inevitable, functional. inconveniently, the ceiling does not answer. the night does not intervene. the city continues its indifferent pulse. There are roads one repairs. There are roads one avoids. and there are roads that circle back around the neck, and back to the body. in an overflowing ashtray i extinguish the cigarette. the dancing is done. and the all consuming room waits, closing in. Hmm. I should **********
0
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 1:08 AM UTC
proctor
Contemplating ************
Contemplating ************ I lie on my crookedly back on a lumpy mattress with curves in all the wrong places, studying the ceiling’s hairline fractures as though they were maps (anywhere, but here) speed bump city crawling with untarred roads leading nowhere, anyway. hopelessness fills the spaces in between alleys fermenting in their own neglect, and cemeteries meet parks, overlapping seeded with broken glass where children once rehearsed futures. junkie-slop spray-painted bridges slump, over lifeless, macroplastic polluted rivers which carry industrial excrement bubbling, past jetty beams surrendering to rot. The city decomposes all around me, above me, below my feet and yet Worst of all, death lives within me. A cigarette hangs from my mouth its ember a minor sunrise. small things are big in a world of defeat... my mind dances with every deep inhalation, as sparks perform their brief ballet then vanish as if rehearsed. Sirens stitch the distance. Dogs growl at the invisible danger lurking at every corner in this town. Bins rattle like an embodiment of the anxious conscience. Somewhere, an ambulance [tragically] edits and prolongs a life. Disharmony harbors inside these walls all the same, acting as conductor to the choir of braintot vices and the ever persistent peace disruptor clock (they never stop) tick, tock tick, tock... small metronomes with a destructive appetite. My mindmaps catalogue the abandoned districts of my own interior: bridges never crossed, letters unsent, texts ghosted, ambitions weathered down to bottom of the can, faded graffiti. Desire does not announce itself with trumpets. It arrives like municipal decay - quiet, inevitable, functional. inconveniently, the ceiling does not answer. the night does not intervene. the city continues its indifferent pulse. There are roads one repairs. There are roads one avoids. and there are roads that circle back around the neck, and back to the body. in an overflowing ashtray i extinguish the cigarette. the dancing is done. and the all consuming room waits, closing in. Hmm. I should **********
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