The ability to explain anything to anyone. Can sometimes make you bulletproof.

It’s in here I lie. Stormed with revolution. Wishing away my days among the free. I wish I could go anywhere.

But know that I’m bulletproof. 

You can attack me in my sleep and send me anywhere. I will go. I will fight. 

And fight well.

You can put me at the hot gates and I am bulletproof. Shooting faster and faster into the next.

That is my legacy. My truth. My God.

With an A across my chest with black markings in their place. I stand and make my mark.

I play fall the sky.


Let it be said what the headache represents. It’s me defending in suspense. It’s me suspended in a defenceless test. Being tested by a ruthless examinate best represented best by my depressing thoughts. I do not have writers block I’m ready to change the clock. It won’t let me sleep I guess I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Someone’s death seems better than the migraine in my head.

My inspiration comes in many forms. But mainly it’s just the back of your neck when your hair is all tied up in a ponytail and you only just woke up.

I notice and smile. Because I know it’s the imperfections that make you most beautiful. Lost beautiful. Just beautiful.

And while I’m jumping around my room to old Nirvana songs and scrawling red ink across the walls like red lightning in a bottle, all you have to do is text and I’m zoned in on you next.

It’s like if the Big Bang was a heartbeat. I’d be the blood. And while we wait for phase two at half way into the bang of the next I just listen to car radio and drink rum or something similar. 

Writing words across a newly painted room. All over like a novel you never got the chance to read.

When I say forever I don’t just mean it. I SEE it. Every detail. Every moment. Every single atom inside the absence of oblivion like a time traveller who’s desperately trying to explain fireworks to the Middle Ages. 

It can’t be done. 

And I don’t feel bad about it.

I just turn the music up and sleep with the sirens that like to push down on my chest while I sleep at night. Taking my breath away. Until we meet for the second time in the after. In the next.

If I ever sleep soundly. It’s because I finally understand the reasons no one ever makes a sound while drowning. But I don’t mean that in a bad way. I just kinda thing that silence is a pretty girl, wandering around in the snow wondering why all her friends don’t have it. 

Don’t see it. 

Don’t know it.

Those people that sit inside of themselves wondering in pure amazement at that very own amazement.

And watching snow fall is one of the prettiest things you’ll ever see. After that lost photo of two hands intertwined of course. Because it only lives in memory.

First it was the eyes. Taking in every piece of colour in the spectrum. Then it was the sound of people with a very specific job to do. All frantically coming together at the right time to deliver this new entry into the fall. 

Then it was the sense of touch. Each hand, a different king of understanding. Like touch holds the soul or something. But now I feel nothing. And it’s how nothing likes it. 

Then I spoke my first word. And it wasn’t some unordained sentiment of want or understanding. It was a question. And that question still screams like a new born baby. 


So later when I drove past your house on my way home. I wondered again, like I did back then. 


Why did it rain so much went it all went down?

Why did I see you everywhere? 

Why did the wind pick up? 

Why did it rain so much?

Why did the bird look at me like that and then peck his car three times?

Why do the crows follow me every where I go?

Why did it rain so much?

Why did I write those letters?

Why did I try so hard?

Why the fucking fuck did it rain so much?

It still feels like there are answers to these questions. But I’m afraid I’ll need to travel to a different dimension to find them. And I’m kinda almost certainly okay with that.

When it’s all said and done I know it’s only the beginning. I know this because as I wrote the words the song started playing in the background that confirms it. EVERYTHING is all hidden away in the tiny details and the timing.

And the timing screams FOREVER as loud as it can over and over to anyone that’ll listen. Over and over. Forever and ever. FOREVER.


The cavalcade of wonders completes me. How this definitely isn’t the first timeline. How time is an archetype that sustains the potential for manipulation. Just the same as Schrödinger’s cat was probably all good until you opened Pandora’s box. In the background of darkness I’m probably writing something completely different right now. Hopefully it’s far better, not worse. Yet both at the same time. Always. 

The whiskey has hit my bloodstream and now I’m chasing that perfect unicorn. That solid state of perfection that you get when everything is just right. Even if you’re stumbling in the garden trying not to fumble so badly you fall the fuck over. That’s where I am.

Apparently it’s easier to make yourself look perfect while you ride the white powder chase, then it is to drink until you stumble no matter what’s going through your head.

I remember when you told me that this life can be a killer. The killer is a system that will pull us all together. Together to the slaughter for the sake of getting richer. The riches are the reason why they paint the perfect picture. It’s hanging on the wall, all these pieces of perfection. Propaganda it’s perfected on the screen you just accept it. I’m trying to find another way to say I’m not infected. But effectively I’m finding out I’m just another victim. The victim of a system that will devastate, eradicate. Pretending there’s a reason why we need to not cooperate. Operation new world, cruel world politics. Send you overseas while dropping bombs on your approximate. I’m lost in this. Trying to figure out the greater positive but they’re the only ones that fucking profit from this war and shit.