Cement

Generally I saw my life in days, stretched out between two poles, end to end like a mosh pit full of privileged douche-bags, making up reasons to be pissed off enough to draw blood and make an enemy or two.

There is nothing general about it now. The days aren't days, they are hours, minutes, seconds. And in between each of them is some unidentifiable lust for all things alive; a deep need to run into every open door available to me, because this time I live in is unique. There will be no other like it. These doors don't stay open for long, and I have to try to understand what's behind each one before they fill with cement--I have to get in there to push, push, push, and then draw it out of its hole lest it remain there forever. It is not exhausting.

No, I've not taken acid recently. I think it's just spring. Don't mind me, I'll just be filling all the empty rooms with cement, because their space is no longer necessary.