Desperate to string these sentences even more so to will myself to say it out in the open. He cries for her. What do I have to cry to. I feel like a ghost. Rather, I am crying to ghosts. The smudged yellow imperfections concealed these invisible chains put in place and time. This is driving me insane; I am in a constant struggle of the intangible which is sapping my physical state and conscious mind. It haunts me, having to stay and remain. I don’t seem to be going anywhere. A task that I hate. An emotion that is queer which I can never own and in every possible way wrong and forbidden. I am dancing in tragedies, stroking and fostering self inflicted wounds like a hospitality centre. How long does each distraction last? Before we find ourselves running to the next.

You know that feeling whereby you are everything yet nothing at the same time. The knife balancing itself at the flesh waiting for that slip to gash.