Once You've Arrived At The End Of

My "heart". Does That Pitiful Organ Still Represent Anything? It Lies Motionless In My Chest, Pumping No Blood, Serving No Purpose, And Yet My Feelings Still Seem To Originate Inside Its Cold Walls. My Muted Sadness, My Vague Longing, My Rare Flickers Of Joy. They Pool In The Center Of My Chest And Seep Out Of There, Diluted And Faint, But Real.

In My Mind I Am Eloquent; I Can Climb Intricate Scaffolds Of Words To Reach The Highest Cathedral Ceilings And Paint My Thoughts. But When I Open My Mouth, Everything Collapses.

I'm Not A General Or A Colonel Or A Builder Of Cities. I'm Just A Corpse Who Wants Not To Be.

I've Always Been Interested In Writing From The Perspective Of An Outsider.

I Wonder How Well She Sleeps At Night, And What Kind Of Dreams She Has. I Wish I Could Step Into Them Like She Steps Into Mine.