(what water is there for us to clean ourselves?)

I am so bored,
so welcome cold
season.

Welcome.

I am forgetting how
to write properly.

All the world is sad.

The face in the moon
is your face,
and you cough clouds
of hazy brown.

“Is all this
...meaningful?”

Crunching leaves remind me
everyone is so alone,
alone as the black
puddle, reflecting
my recurring thoughts of—

I am lying on
a patch of road,
the pavement to my head
icy, ill, inhuman,
irritated.

“People are obsessed
with purpose. They die
without it, but really—
we live to fuck
and die.”

I cry as I realize
this is no place
for someone so loved.

—everyone here knows what
he wants, and everyone here knows
what waits for him after
life, and everyone here has faith
in something he knows he should,
and everyone is every one
but I am not!

...still the black entices.