one day when i'm happy, i won't have a voice any more, or maybe i will find it, i can't tell either way. tonight is only the smallest colour, when today was so bright: all my friends crashed to the mini golf course. but tonight i wanted to retreat, and every time i retreat i feel a little better and a little worse. i think retreating is movement, but it's not a constant movement. you only retreat so far and then all the teeth are poisoned and all the minutes hold eyes - the hands move, watching. then you walk forwards but with such small colour, it is to face a fog of things removed, memories of gas, not the steam i look with wonder that licks the bathroom where i've gone. but moving back to the front where everything is close and sharp, heavy to snap bone with - (blinking light, one instant, hands on forehead). the march back only gets you so far, never as far as you were.

and what fucking madness: i was going to create something. i don't want the truth, not this truth, truth from fear.

but this can go nowhere further. (snapped off here, eyes full of angry border places.)

i have a total crush on you, baby