Depression, grief or hollow relief? The same voids hide under every new leaf. I’m so stuck on seeing meaning and purpose that I can’t stop believing that everything’s worthless, so I’m pumping on the feta like a dead man’s chest, pumping out the brine in the hopes of what’s best, that life is just my life’s lifelong test, but I can’t just give that fucking life a rest, one doesn’t just forgive their life’s nemesis. I’m fatigued from the bleed, struggling with the need to proceed. One day closer to death’s door, one step closer to life’s whore. That poor whore indeed, such a parasite on the weak, offering cheaper fixes so that experience can’t compete. I don’t have the propensity or a good enough sense in me to see ashes as ashes or dust in perpetuity, so enjoy your devil’s scrutiny, belief and purpose are my eulogy, toxic as mercury, factual hyperbole. Woe is me, oh woe is me, woe my precious purgatory. No one is free, none possess eternity. I’m never going to be that redemption story. Broadened horizons through the lion’s den of surprises, prized viruses clouding my iris’ vision of history’s revered papyrus’, no truths to be found, no words that ignite us, no reason to speak beyond formal politeness. My mind’s eye is sightless, tight-lipped and plightless, if everything is then nothing is righteous, if everything is then no one can fight this, pragmatically lifeless.