I’m a sucker for a lost soul. I’m a sucker for a soul that thinks it’s found. I’m just a sucker.
I live in a mental asylum. I sit on my bed and thread crystals onto thread; I can’t get my things in order.
One week, in this here asylum. The cat is shitting in my room, for want of a better solution. It isn’t so bad, but after the initial triumph, seeps in the details (the ever craning man). The lack of curtains, of storage space; the smell of weed seeping under the door (the lack, the lack, the lack. [The frustration, of the lack]).
At the laptop, at midnight, jumping through hoops, for someone elses satisfaction. My new job, is my old job. Studentka, employed proving to other people that I CAN THINK. Filling out endless fucking forms detailing all the ways in which I have learnt throughout my life, to answer questions.
I don’t mean to sound anything other than what I am, which is alive, and increasingly satisfied. I just wanna light these fucking hoops on fire, that’s all.