secret motel

Every direction is an empty pursuit. I can't find joy or meaning in anything. I don't want to listen to anything or read anything. Just sit on the edge of my bed and wait for the day to burn down around me. I fall asleep dislocating myself from time and space. This is the closest thing to comfort I can realize. My family never existed. Everything I thought a friend was mislabeled. If I have to "be" anything, I wish to exist outside and beyond. Way the fuck outside and beyond. No real memory of faces or places. I feel like I'm doing it right now. Turn it all off. Such a comfort. So quiet and black.

Way out here.