Eyes behind which circle many thoughts like wolves - unearthed in harsh dissonance to bitter cry of broken being; thoughts - prowling behind bleeding stares at soft stars - that bruise the cynical darkness. The scarred are the strongest fighters.
Spinning spheres of hollowness, drifting ghosts of neon-washed, white-faced, candle-lit beauties; one hand hesitating, drawing back, from the gentle light; what we long for, we shun, clutching the black with the other. Ach, would that each saw the picture. Sometimes, one only seems to grasp sharp-edged puzzle pieces.
Dear depression, I wish you could see the view from here. It's not so high as it is grand, because, broken mortal that I am, I have not reached the top. It's quite stunning, in a calming, relieving, beautiful way, on the other side of the valley. You hate me, I know, for in some [...]
Is fyre truly, always, orange, amber, red, furious? We think it can only smoulder and rage and roar. We think one can only be seared by its pain. What if, perhaps, I have been burned - am being burned alive - but I am, slowly, ever slowly, beginning to see that the fyre, sometimes, wears [...]