I used to read, maybe too much, too quickly, too young, but there was a time when I was able to remain somewhat stable by thinking the thoughts of others. For hours at a time I wasn’t somewhere else, rather I was here as someone else, and I could feel strong. Nothing but the power of existing, identity as I’ve never been able to maintain it. And I guess if I saw ‘someone’ they would call attention to the obvious lack of connection between all five awkward members of my family and blame my confusion on an emotional contusion I’ve been walking on too hard to heal. But I’m almost certain there are and have always been others like me, moreover, there have been entire civilizations which depended upon idealistic imagination. I blame the lazy fucks who gave up when there was the slightest placation. Thanks for the lousy century, decades without literature, eons without intent. How long does nothing is nothing have to exist for you to imagine everything?