With reckless abandon
I chase any semblance of this
is apparent and everything
this is what I see as secure.
All I used to have is slowly convincing myself it was only a dream as I slide into a comfortable space in the middle of pseudo-this where nothing is shared and I am never asked,
this is the goal for the best.
The constant reminder of the artificial world, the neon rainy lack of this strips my mind of all of its peace. It's almost too late;
this is the narrow vision to which I run to every warm corner to escape.