I’m wearing a skeleton jumpsuit and the injection missed the vein. So now my head just keeps talking to strangers as if I need a saviour. 

I listen to Twenty One Pilots and make predictions about what that golden shot was supposed to produce. But when I call 911 I get no dial tone like it’s flatlining in my ear.

It’s all impossible until it isn’t. It’s all a carefully laid out plan until it all goes wrong. And it’s all a joke until no ones laughing. Replaced by tears in four or five and then I write this piece.

In mythology every head of the snake thinks its leading the body. But there’s always another taking higher position and leading the rest like sheep to the slaughter.

I turn snakes into sheep and become the wolf. I lead no one anywhere because where I’m going you don’t want to follow. There’s too much to tell you, you just wouldn’t be prepared.

So when I play each upbeat melody it’s because it’s better to dance in the dark then scream at the sun. The sun doesn’t listen to any of us. It’s exploding just the same. 

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