1.
This story becomes my story, never mind precision. Details suffice from inexact and cadged experiences I'd have rather not had. The injustice in this world. Birth order and cosmic straws devil you. A handful of keys are as secure as lining up constellations with a transit. That you would feel more assurance in a warm wilderness, don't bet on this.

2.
I am in my cups and fervent, only if my neck did not hurt so. How you forget I have an entire world system, galaxies in my head, that creeps out when I divine too much. Your world system, a misnomer, is, I'd say, a black hole. Light gets in or out, I forget. My agency is bad enough as it is, hanging on a high test thread.

3.
Terror licked me in my nativity. First by what could be seen and not forgotten, then by what could only be imagined. Coupled with what was heard and you had the last hope of smothering carelessness. I was tenderly and soon enamored of precision, ritual, and the absolute defense of the solemn. Years will not help.

4.
I'm not really the same one who could imbibe the sherbet sky. Trundled and conducting a premiere that arrives sometimes daily. Like stepping off a wobbly raft onto solid ground. I look back and marvel at how crowded it was. How I dreamed of this, an immigrant from the salad days.

5.
Staring at a wall takes too much energy. We all begin to expire slow and assuredly. The least together among us, I swear, can teach you more. But your ears are plugged. You hum or buzz the same tune for a fortnight. I thought sleep would not be easy. There is too much going on. How did I get so prone?

6.
When every word out of his mouth is an annoying trash compactor, too early it awakens. So easy to suffer and hold to the narrowing and grime ridden walls of self-ness. There's a terrible stench here that, realistically, I grow accustomed to. Like strings of words pulled from the refuse, in dark corners of sweatshops malnourished children untangle them for a taste.

7.
Time puts one ever on notice, to where I have long stopped making progress. Inches per year. I turn darker and absorb toxins, enriched by their harsh incorporeality. I can gather into a comfortable seat my strained limbs, strike a match.

8.
Having reached the apogee of ridiculousness, fashioning the starter from your insuperable guilt, ceremony now flushes me into a demilitarized zone. Tattered, insubstantial, I walk it back to the starting line, the moist void, the seat of recompense.

9.
One day we're all living under a police state, walking cautious, some with airs, others with their neuroses balanced in bags on their backs. The culprit preens, our little Hitler, daring the revolution to commence as planned. You can't travel or escape, because your accountability is a trail of iniquity and blemish for some future trial.

10.
There is no turning back. The dull voice cadence clicks the wrong box and boils over. Many a truth is contained, neither right or wrong. Certainly misplaced, misapprehended, though enjoined by enveloping arms and bosom would be as fraught, as unwelcome. Some humors stain the most tenuous of surfaces.