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Sometimes I enjoy taking walks, it’s where I do my best thinking. Recently, for the first time, I decided to record my thoughts as they came. Below, you will find those thoughts, transcribed. 

It’s what you thought you should have wanted, but never could have felt. It was a thought that couldn’t breathe, was left to quietly melt, thickly through the sludge and the drudge of our heads, solid and deranged, manifested instead.

It’s what you thought you always wanted, and then knew, you never needed at all.

Pretend you’ve never felt this before, as if your standing in an ocean constantly felt, washing around, underneath, above, filtering sound, through your thoughts and dreams, filtering sound as if you or me, still existed, but were never there. As if they’d never been felt. Remember that twist in her hair? That shiver you felt? And there are ten-thousand steps in this specific dream-ocean, wandering, sweltering, watching us melt, over-haul, under-haul, down-torrent, water-fall.

Distilled fragment, scattered emotions.

Minuscule. Sulfuric breezes.

What are they doing there behind their screens? Filtering the things that have been left unseen, unsaid, but heard softly in your head, and twisted: forced and squeezed, echoes of the mess you’ve left.

Twisted, as if your life gave out, thrifted and sifted through confidence and doubt.

Twisted, turning, moths burning. Burning at the stake, losing life, all grips on fate, that one single source, that brightest light of all, the one light after death, one that ruled them all.

The Moth. Bright and burning, engulfed in flames, twisted and turning, ashes became. The moth-eaten bug. You, or me. Liquefied sludge, underneath our feet.


Music drifted here, once. Under the moon. The songs that consistently soothed. There were wheels here once, and footsteps too, back when I thought I knew, everything. All at once. And I thought I could do, Anything. If I put my trust. In you.


Splintering, filtering, mildew, abuse. Tinkering, twitching, struggling through: whoever knew? Unheard of aggression, silent abuse. Blistered and bruised. Tree-branches turning and twisted and burning, the moth on the shelf. Inflated sense of self. Thoughts without tracks, pistols at our backs, constantly turning and twisting and curving.

The slaps, on the slippery brick-ocean, tied and narrowed to tracks, fragmented pavement, teeth on the cement, curb-stomp. Angels in their heads. Demons instead.

And if you were mumbling, you couldn’t hear me. The city delights, under her breath, on those long winter nights, when you know you’re alone and no one can hear you, and yet you hope and you wish that someone’d be near you.

Along the red-district, where danger’s in sight, curves around the edges, immortal to the night. Through the splashes of blood, and the twist-turns of light. These drugs and the mud, squeezing too tight. Do you feel alright?

Wanted and taunted, all around are shells, and everything’s out of context: we’re never really ourselves. Moths on the shelves, quietly burning, fusing unfusing, constantly turning, pressure, unpressure. Contradiction, metafiction. We’re all twisted too.

Aren’t you?

Yet there is no one to stand there, between us and it. No one to stand there in that space betwixt. So much space, and our spleens, twisted and broken under our feet. Crosswords on the street. Filtered and dusty, rainy, musty. Oceans in your head. Torrents of days, the chill, how it stays, night after night, no matter what you’re wearing, it soaks through to your skin. Depending on nothing, the nothing that couldn’t exist if you weren’t there to feel it.

You know? You’d know.

And yet, they still hear you, silently sifting through the thoughts and words drifting, through the sludge of your mind, unwittingly, all the time. Whether you want them or not. Whether you asked them or not; impeding, intruding, constantly receding. Progressing. Progressing. Not staying on track. Angels, dead, laying on their backs.

And there’s this smell that spills, out of the gutters and over your feet, sputters and mutters of the long lost dead, trickle and stutter in little neat, lines. Three. Side by side, pulsating white, smells so sweet. Remember this place, your life on this street. Take time to embrace, your one crucial need. And feed, feed on that moment that’ll never be the same, feed on that moment when you thought you came, to the light everyone had said, would bring you to a place like heaven instead. Yet it is a lie, it’s just one more cry, that kills every time.

Twirling and turning, off with their heads.

And yet, there is the issue of safety, of being alone, at the end of the day, there’s no one at home. But you couldn’t hope for more. You couldn’t think outside of your drinks. Sloshing and turning, the waves in your head. Waves in your head, swishing and burning. Not wanted, or needed, or anything else, haunted and treated, bleeding under the shelf. The Moth. The Moth. Blinded and twisted, unfittingly broken. Kneaded, not needed.

It’s just you, you’re the filter. And you fear that your filter is constantly sifting out the good things instead. The monsters in your head.

These branches, weighed down by the weight of her tears, everything’s wrong, you’ve forgotten all the years, when you thought you were happy, but knew that you weren’t. You cried and you tortured, sizzled and burnt.

Shopping Carts, Alley Ways, Jagged Edges, Thoughts Displayed: All over the road, Where leaves fall, Nothing can be heard, Nothing at all.

Questioned and tortured, innards are bruised. And it remains, no matter what, through the slashes and ooze, the blood and the dust, all stick to the web, shining and turning, shimmering through, here lies the spider waiting for you.

Wandering down the rabbit hole, didn’t you just imagine it all?

Cans of old ashes, litter the ground, fragments of lives that’ll never be found, shards of dismay, coddled alleyways, you’re looking. Twisted and dripping, blinking and flickering. Unfortunate. I’d be fortunate if fortune I had any. Bred by the man where fortune foreplays.

Yet there’s coherence, a line to this thread, one moment keeps burning, returning, often in your head, and you think, Gee, there’s some sense of unity.