They Dropped Us Off Here Without Our Consent.

This scent prevails: penniless little kids and those lives fast forwarded in an email stream to return to sender with a defunct address. The Rest Home for the Wicked has gone bankrupt and now the teenagers are drunk and flying out into bread winning casts along the roadways. You call me what my credit card says. The bones are the ones that hold us up aren't they? Then why do I feel this sense of deflation when I feel so empty? They are all in this procession that is leading to the horizon where a slow burn of beaten hymns and depthless pallor shine unadulterated like nothing before. I fucked it up. I sent it out without. I fucked it up. I feel my hands shaking into blurry messes while the tome of this increase writes itself without me. The bricks in the deathly palindrome that is our lives folding so the ends meet: Rest Home for the Wicked. And yet, no rest. Be there or lose hair. From stress.