passion project(ion)

nothing ever stays, he says, as he digs his heels and sets stay in. nothing ever bites me better.

contagious contiguation, ouroboros of saving and discarding and saving again.

sick with want. we're all sick with want, except that none of us care enough to truly acknowledge it.

so we're not all sick. only some of us are sick. only some of us are swimming in a bloodborne sea.

but remember friends, my fickle partners of fate, those some of us just can't handle it. there are those of us straight panicked by the idea of a friend, a partner, a mate.

maybe we're dealing with a dearth of reality. maybe we're blundering through a shuttered-out world.

all these gifts, a-given unto me. all this endless love.

but i don't believe it. i really just can't believe it.

it might be for now. it might be for today. but you're a fool if you think you can convince me that this temporary happiness might really stay.

i don't know how to reciprocate. i can't dream of ever paying it back. and it's this same thing i've fought with, struggle-wrestled in the night, with people far fonder and older than me.

i wonder at it with younger targets, too. i can never be above, to ever become enough.

but it's not about pity - let's not make it about pity!

let's make it about the sunder of generosity, unreal.

i named a day all after myself, and showered in gifts i became altogether richer. i commanded this presence to commend myself, uncondemned and unamended, this assumption unto me.

i should do it. it's only right for me to do it. my purpose is to enrich the tapestry of the world.

let us think of feathered words and filtry promises; let us think of each other, and our nonexistence, and our boundaries between hands.

the hand which gives unto you also receives, also takes and takes and takes, also strokes gentle attentive head.

like animal panic. like insentient chaos. forging stars, together, my loves.

i do this because i want to. you did this because you wanted to.

and that's not a thing to come to grips with. such a slippery, sloppery thing.

we can't hold it; it's meant to pass right through our hands.

the king of the highway addresses as many patient pods of cars.

we all drive on, together.