how happy can I be living in perpetual fear of my own apathy? the people on the news start to scare me less. I scare myself with how much more I seem to think about the end of something that has hardly just begun. clouds run heavy with dread for the inevitable, waiting for the fates to pull the rug and send me falling back to earth into my shell. I remember I forgot my glasses crossing tram tracks in the rain. the whole world looks a little softer in the fog. by the window falling into blue light and white noise. I pour a little too much time in finding you a song. perhaps I should have saved some for the census.
the tram back home is packed with sardines craving space / to be anywhere else. I want to be riding my bicycle. golden hour washes through the glass over statues holding vigil on their phones. one woman stands facing the open window she is locked to with her fingers. we watch the sun descend into the suburbs.
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