Even the boulevard of broken dreams is just an illusion; the road was closed all along.

Pouring out the last drip-drops of what my soul will permit me to spare is a task too burdensome to perform and I don’t feel I owe it to any of you.

Hope? Despair? What of them?

A car careens into a crowd of merry wanderers, but is anyone really paying attention? Are those tears salty?

Once upon a time there was nothing. Here, now there is nothing. Tomorrow; nothing.

But we exist. My faint reflection in the window is proof. But now the window is broken. Who cares?

Blink and you’ll miss it. Miss what?

The coldest summer I’ve ever spent was a summer inside my own head.

Those flowers aren’t even real.

And don’t ask me again.

Tea cup, ink well, dark matter, tin alloy.

The circumference of my racing mind can be found on page 27.

Wicker baskets make lovely urns; scattered, shadoobie.

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