This. Really, Really, Really—felt This.

Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka: 1910-1913

These are the hours. The hours, the minutes, the seconds. And the mind? Brutal.

𝙸𝚗 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚛.

The brightness of the morning sun knows no bounds. It simply increases. We'll follow the wind, which has no discernible direction.

The Viper has no knowledge of importance. These parallels are uncommon, but they are very consistent. It's unlikely that you'll be any of these elements.

The world's rationality is slim by the margins. Count the number of times the sun rises. Count the number of times the wind will strike you in the face. Count how many times the Viper has appeared in your life.

Is that searing still there or has it dissipated into your soul? Do you ever get up when the sun does? Do you know who the Viper is?

If by chance... Chance at all my emotional wheel of competency fails me... I will be able to say I tried.

Shall I fail at this or that, whether I fall into something or not— I tried. On my sleeve my heart is. In my mind thoughts are. On my heart? I'm unsure.

I tried...

I tried...

And maybe I cried but that's life.

And don't forget folks, that's what you get folks...

—Angie 💋

10/2—

I am beyond myself in these moments of what is and what isn't.

No longer mindful of how I come across to others.

I need to avoid repeating my sorrows. As a result, carry the haunted pain with you forever.

My eyes hurt, and my ribs hurt. Heart filled with sorrow, but I'm still left alone by my own thoughts.

How is that even doable? Have I turned into a was? Is my new identity just a reimagining and a pale version of who I once was?

Cannot reproduce these feelings.

Space is like a shelter in many forms. The way that space feels both accessible and far beyond. How elaborate the voyage details are. When Earth has reached its nadir, how hazy the soul remains.

Within many ways, I am a drawback. Just to re-trail, I trail. I forget so I can recall. I think back to position myself in time. When was? Where am I supposed to be? What should I do still?

Space. Stars, dreams, and imaginative creations are the foundation of my life. These are real yet far away. I am the galaxy, yet the burned out stars are the only ones that call me home.

I'm constantly looking for my position on this planet. I'm broken, blind, and ecstatic that I still have a path ahead of me...

You may find me to be the candidate for dos and don'ts. I can unravel with the times and wind up when the sun rises...

Even my own eyes cannot recognize me sometimes... that's okay. I like being mysterious. I beat with old blood. Bad, contaminated, drug-infused blood. But it's still blood...and I still am human.

In fact, the thing that scares me is not what I do, but what I like. I'm your typical punk girl with tattoos and a pouty face. Dark, right? But believe me, I am light. I am an enigma. I am a phase...I am human.

(𝐴𝑛 𝑒𝑐𝒉𝑜)

It is never boring or garish. It's unseemly in every way—leaves the body with a soft shutter. A repeat.

How cunning of it. What perfect timing. How awful it may be if the echo persisted. to have such a sound stand you and mark you. Artistically picturesque—but blindly in tune.

characterized by sound, guided by sight, and adored by touch. That echoes That distant cacophony is audible. Stay and then go. Neither drab nor very bright.