I live in a time when penicillin still works.

I live in a time when only one of two locks is still sufficient.

I live in a time when only half of us are tolerant of the other half.

I live in a place that allows you to homogenize in a melange of people in plebian and business attire.

I live in a time when rules are placed but are unevenly enforced.

I live in an era of imperfect transitions. Fragments piecing together like solving a puzzle of bloodstained glass after a cracked skull of an unfortunate unmarriage. In the name of what god, exactly?

A taste of milk and honey. Synthetic honey, no less, dusted with arsenic and sodium chloride. Die sweetly, you’d be told. Rows of paraffin impaled upon a chalice. A night of desire, or a night of mourn? A relic of the past, or a necessity? A contingency, perhaps.

A pen is only mightier than a sword if you’ve left your sword to dull. And if you devote your faith to your mind instead of another’s.

Petroleum. A sweet bitterness. A smell of death. We take pleasure in vapourizing the dead and profit from it. “Economics” is the common excuse. But could we be bartering our time to be appeased?

Nausea. Close your eyes to adjust. Open, and the sky turns pallor. Darker. Keep your eyes pried. Peeled. Don’t blink.

I live in a time when time can no longer live.


I am a broken set of characters.

A lentient lexicon.

I live for alliterations, yet alliterations do not live for me.

A penalty of words.

Like winning in a grand amphitheatre for a pyrrhic victory against yourself.

A dischordance of stanzas.

Such living on a porcelain spine bound by the fray of short circuits and instability is surely uncertain.

A sanguinary evisceration of thanatos.

When streams become rivers and tears become crimson.

An ashen autumn in an eschatological world.