the same again: will i ever find peace? will i ever be complete and whole? work and wife and children and still, still this fucking pain with each breath. working out, chiseling a body long abandoned, reading fact and fiction and theory and science, and still, still: ennui and void, entropy and emptiness, pathos and pain…
are you happier or more pre-occupied? have you found a rhythm to dance to or more rabbit holes to scurry into? zen or distraction?

there are times, late into the night, in this haggard breath the moon coughs across these streets, i feel this intolerable loneliness, this immense and profound sense of isolation: this skin is a prison, my mind a cell and every word i have ever said a betrayal of every word i should’ve said.