I get sad on Sunday mornings, lying next to you underneath big windows as you’re glowing in sunshine, eyelashes shimmering, lips outlined by blue sky and I become entangled in the breath that falls from you


Work until it kills you like a good citizen, stare dead-eyed into your cubicle as your soul gets sucked out, sit on deteriorating muscles and still be expected to be healthy, get stuck inside your anxious head all day and still be expected to be healthy, watch a bright screen till your eyes can no longer see, till your brain can no longer compute, till your body can longer stand, till your heart can no longer feel.


Who are you, beneath all the layers of your superficial surface? If you were not anxious most of the time, who would you be? If you were not lonely most of the time, what kind of person would you be? Do you care about animals and writing and music and friends and travel? Are you someone who gets introspective in coffee shops? Is that who you are? Is who you are defined by your age, race, gender? Are you just an accident produced by this particular universe in this particular era in time? Are you nothing at all?