Rusty pipes in the walls of my house pump loneliness through the fixtures. There are dark stains on the driveway that were there long before I was. I entomb a little piece of my life a day at a time. Inside my gilded cage with rotting beams and cracked concrete. The rain outside is greasy and smells of turpentine. I'm a poor fit for capitalism.

11:57 a.m. - 2016-10-31