I feel as a walking construct of decay. Fresh paint over rotting wood. My subconscious trying to asphyxiate the breath of enlightenment within me. It feels like the edge of illness. Too many homemade cookies and orgasms.
See. Left unchecked, my dissonance will simply subsume my internal conflict under the weight of distractions.
I know I must reach into the rapid riptide of my own mind. Bare-armed and teeth clenched against the surging cold. Pulling out black leeches of denial and moral conflict. Not to destroy, but study and understand. As they drink nourishing doubt from my ragged veins.
10:44 p.m. - 2014-09-08
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