explodist

It gets faster and faster, the thoughts and the heat. It is always the same—always going to be the same. I stare at them, and they don't stare back. I am kind with broken limbs, ingest the little scrap, and still remain. How the fuck are we expected to maintain to the fucking rules of this fucking world, when we are not them? And I cannot. I can't do job hunting. I can't escape patterns. I can't be very alone.

And it is never enough to give in, because this brain has to be bent enough to fight—resist—survive. I should celebrate cheap, little survival.

Maybe you are not looking in the right places. Maybe you should stop looking.

But then the right song plays, and I can come back: the only living boy in new york, by simon and garfunkel.