Tired of feeling like a lunatic in my house. Hyperanalytic, moving like a field mouse. I used to believe there was something in my room with me. Now I see so clearly this whole place is empty. Devoid of anything.

Time to fly away, I mean that metaphorically. I’ll likely just drive somewhere and contemplate maturity. I’m thinking a parking lot would suit the situation best. If it’s not gonna rain I’ll close my eyelids. Slam my body to the headrest.

Think I need to be baptized or something. I’m supposed to feel more awake. If there’s a spirit within I haven’t been hearing from him much these days. Guess it could be sobriety, guess it could be just getting older, but it’s probably just the days getting darker and colder and never knowing when it’s gonna change.

Finding comfort till the moment comes I’m found out. Where’s the failsafe you always seem to talk about? A blank stare. A haircut? A new shirt? A fuck-up. My mistake. The landlord. Two seatbelts and a hole punched through a screen door.

Something in the air, I mean that metaphysically. It’s tension and cardamom. I practice hyperventilating. I couldn’t be happier, I can assure you. I couldn’t be happier. I couldn’t be happier.

No, but I know I’m undercutting the problem. Avoidant and stubborn, my virtues. Ever since I arrived on the Earth I’ve been doing stuff wrong. So guide me, my shepherd. Trajectory skewed by perception. If I’m moving in the right direction send a sign. A bolt of lightning or a rent check.