Untitled

The problem with having no memory
is that it fills itself in as it pleases
With falsities
With four, four, four going on five
With polaroids that have yet to be determined

Rise Up.

What rises?

The sun. On another day of four, four, four, going on five.

Vomit. Real nausea that accompanies fake memories.

Heart rate.

Temper.

Heat.

Questions.

Words. Piles and Piles of letters and sounds.

Silence.

If I assume no one is reading this it must be true.

But I can still always just say that I'm talking to you.