“You ask me why there are so many worlds infrastructures constricting my mind choking my windpipe from sunrise toward the darkest abyss of lost hours. You ask me to never sip another drop and wish my lungs could breath freely. My infinite hues invisible, and they swell with distant tomorrows and ancient sorrow. I stand where the salty sea breaks with my sweet sense within my spine, dying from shallow poetry, demeaning music and walking strangers with little to no soul left to create finer art than our peeling skin can reveal, and ultimately transcendence bleeds into vivid streams you drink from my lower lip.”
Book:Prima Materia