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Nowhere. No one. Knotted eyes struggle to untangled what they see. Gods lay the mortar. Demons the bricks. This is our home. Anywhere I don't remember having already been. Skin like a parachute afraid to open. Letting us fall.

I fall no faster as the falling lingers. It's just an illusion. Gravity is louder when you know it's there.

Years worth of sleep in just a few days and still I'm tired. Sickness is how you define it. Be it by dolls of paper lost in the scissor's resolve. Or the ink from your pen that gives them veins.

Dark trench coats prepare the person in small eclipses. Like the bleed of ink through to the other side of the paper.

It was never meant to be seen.

This disease is my greatest accomplishment.