Wrapped up in my head. The four walls confining the stream of thought seem ever shrinking. The sky is falling and there’s no way to get out on time. It can’t be outrun. More static than loneliness the numb sensation of nothingness is what remains. A hopeless “I’m alone” is ritualized. Vital to the existence of a boring narcissist and his whoring artistic instinct. A maker makes and a creator creates, so introduce the faker. Intoxicated by the need-to-do is a desperate pretender. An actor the ranks of whom none have witnessed. Defender of ideas that don’t exist yet, but solitude follows the footprints. It loves creative types.
By Selena McCarter