The Loneliness System.

And that's exactly why I didn't want the Midas touch on my belongings, I knew the assumptions that would be made (for the worst), I knew that there would be no margin for error, just the constant condescending and the sense of worthlessness she'd have to rise above. Judge, jury, executioner. As if I would have done a 180. A pipe, bottlecaps, and the undrunk swig of scotch which was provided by the one who would listen, regardless, without that piety in her eyes. Assuming all the wrong things, that pigeon hole with its death grip, and I suppose that this is the entire crux of the issue, glinting in the sun, undeniable.

I cannot live with you --
it would be life,
and life is over there on the shelf,
the sexton keeps the key to.

We're all human unless it's me, and humanity is worth fighting for unless it's someone you actually know. It's the third time, which is supposed to be the charm, but it feels more like the last nail slamming into the lid. Allayed hopes. A sickness in the pit of my stomach and the words I cannot bear to utter, but feel so fervently regardless.

"That's you over there, in that van. Who gives a fuck-all about how thin the ice is you're about to land on. The thing is to keep driving anyway."

The position of shotgun is currently open to applicants.