something static, something immuable, like an aristotelean substance to call mine and take hold of it forever – my mother, my home, my parents, my room, my belongings, my clothes, my journal, my self, my time, my life, my mind. Misfortunate enough, I’ve been stripped of my hold of these toys and my arms were…

Of course I am self-made, I am choking on the web of my own lies. An echoing chamber of nonsense, where my lies bounce off the walls and back in my skull, like bullets. A bottomless well that drowns my voice with bleak little poems about petty happinesses. Addict’s habit: you open your eyes chasing…