Start writing. Start writing echoed and reverberated around in the empty cavern that was once filled with vinyl and shine. Cause and inspiration plummeted into a void uncharted and abandoned. The mind withered while the body took shape without purpose.

“You don’t deserve creativity.”

Creating lists of meaning, lists of things to strive for, lists that felt entirely impossible.

Looking back, the realization of immeasurability flooded the enigmatic mindset, the plague.

Like the kin, the artist fell from the path, let the evergreen wash over, let kindness become the overriding consumption. This is a family.

The time is now, alternatives no longer seem fit as viable options. Without yesterday, without tomorrow, only now exists. Cease the day, let the cliche envelope you. Change creeps forth quickly, and with solidarity.

Become consumed by something.

Sly and inappropriate, juggling futures, losing thrust, losing something lost years ago. Anger seeps out of every structure, coated with molasses. Constantly striving to find outlets.

Having to do something for myself is a lot harder than I thought.

Thrift me. My receipt flew away and landed in a puddle of Ralph.

In a constant mood to entertain: mask up, create the facade in mere seconds, then break it apart.

Mix and match auras to meet the needs of everyone but yourself. Your trust has been peeled away, layer by layer, chipped away piece by piece.

How much is left?

Apprehension will kill you.