they come from the perfect flaws, and the things you do that you fucking know are the good things. the better things. when you are looking up your more altruistic nature on Google Maps, and it just won't focus as much as you would've hoped. those blurred rooftops. scanning and squinting, and such a ridiculous idea seems perfectly normal. this vernacular is not a secret, but a gauntlet. they are the love which, according to the villian hidden within your doubts, are much more telling. telling that tale. the one you wish you could tell in perfect syntax; with a perfect voice. regardless of the interruptions from the demons that occupy the insides of your eyelids. staking their claim in your retinae, when all you want is a few hours reprieve from just about fucking everything. but, surprise!, your demons have a deed. legally binding in whatever personal hell you happen to have forged with the flesh of one too many skinned knees, and too few lessons learned. a shaky fucking foundation at best. a basis for routine at worst. and they can't seem to figure out whether the universe is expanding, or retracting. both concepts are terrifying, especially when the ceiling seems to be inches from your face. closing in on you like a fear you never knew you had. buried deep, waiting to pounce on your nerve endings. your demons know more about love than you're afraid to admit. and, sometimes it truly feels as if you need to clutch the earth while it spins, just in case the void decides to swallow you fucking whole. after all, its appetites match our own. we're the hare in the course, and we are the hound. we're the chaff, and we are the wind that blows us away. we are the dimness, and we are the doubt. the sun, the moon, and all points betwixt.
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