My heart is made from obsidian; it throbs like body parts that excite at the merest sight of something that merges our fears and perversions like the sounds of a lover screaming by the side of the road. It’s snowing, and as she struggles to cut through the traffic, the one she showers with is being stabbed with a kitchen knife by some punk who wishes only for the end. My writing is darker than it used to be. A few years ago, I wrote about wishing to be with a girl I couldn’t shake no matter what; I declared that life was about taking chances- about being honest and sincere and doing everything you could to touch the lives of others. In many ways, this is still true. It has to be. Otherwise, we’re fucked. But the older I get, the more I realise things aren’t that simple. For years I wished there was a happy ending- a state of being that meant perfection, but this doesn’t interest me anymore. Conflict creates so much possibility, and possibility is the one true state. Not a destination where we rest our weary heads, but a crossroads where we gaze at the chaos that drips from our flesh and marvel at all we will never know. The stars in the sky are grains of sand that collect in her belly button. Each rogue planet that shoots through the galaxy, a thought that resides in her head for less than a tenth of a second. Suffering multiple lapses in faith, I feel the failure of who I should be dragging me down with every step, but there’s no shame in drifting. No shame at all. There’s magic in a kiss, but then again there’s magic in being caught in a storm as you stand drenched by the rain with tears invisibly running down your face. It’s all about how you revel in your time, and how much you’re willing to sacrifice to sing a different tune. Sing it like the birds as they fly upside down while looking up at the sun. Sing it even when no one else is listening. Holding her arms by her side, she waits for my next move, but I’m not even sure I have one. Leaning forwards, she closes her eyes and pushes her mouth onto mine. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me hard; that the thought of her nude body didn’t cause me to swallow repeatedly. And yet as she pushes herself closer, I can’t help but think about how long the Titanic’s got before it rusts away completely, and how cold it must be so deep beneath the ocean’s surface. This a daydream, it has to be.