the anxiety of silence, not letting accidents to bloom to their final form (they become art and noise and leftover pieces of image in the physical plane). my head is on fire and i sit in the dark to watch it glow. death is here again, it's presence taking over everything, reflecting on glass and shadowing my back. i feel the anxiety of death watching my head on fire in the dark.
i'm not hungry
i don't want sex
i want nothing
incinerate the words that contradict and read again. i am not a person.