…i Realized My Happiness Was Artificial. I

I'll Tell You, My Friends: It's All In The Nerves. The Nerves That Tense And Relax As You Approach The Edges Of Companionship And Love. The Razor-sharp Edges Of Companionship And Love.

Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

Nothing Happened Today. And If Anything Did, I’d Rather Not Talk About It, Because I Didn’t Understand It.

Jesus Is The Masterpiece. The Thieves Are Minor Works. Why Are They There? Not To Frame The Crucifixion, As Some Innocent Souls Believe, But To Hide It.

The Pain, Or The Memory Of Pain, That Here Was Literally Sucked Away By Something Nameless Until Only A Void Was Left. The Knowledge That This Question Was Possible: Pain That Turns Finally Into Emptiness. The Knowledge That The Same Equation Applied To Everything, More Or Less.