why run, when the most adept hunter is yourself? lines in the street only serve as tracks to follow. jittery & jagged; there's always someone who knows where you are running. turn a corner, cadge an alley. fucking matters not, for you will always be found. cowering in the corner with your collections. your thematic rhapsodies of a life lived somewhere between zero and backward. even the smartest cattle ends up becoming the feed. especially when you are your own predator. just another rapid, vapid morsel for the monster. yet, eventually, found inedible. like gristle to be spat. expectorated expectations, fuckers. find a greasy bone in the gutter, and tell a story. tell it to the spaces where the witnesses should be. don't worry, the fucking mosquitos are taking notes.
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