A Collection of Spectacles


Every time I think I have things figured out, I am dropped from the sky and reminded of the finite nature of my being. I am too preoccupied with love, too obsessed with the most unstable of volatile beings. I want to wall myself up, sew myself shut till the chemicals in my brain fail to cross a synapse for the first time. Apoptotic fantasies rush inward, what suffocating thoughts. “I am a fan of breath play, but this asphyxiation knows no end, and it surely isn’t erotic,” I think. Then, as I take a breath and revel in the soreness of my tar stained lungs, I check my phone, and a new glimmer from the same dark place appears.

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