Now and again, I escape myself. There are several ways. Several doors. Drink. Drugs. A tiresome concoction of the two. Sex is better, and it’s always good for allowing you to embrace a sense of otherness, but the orgasm brings with it a sense of relief that’s only fleeting, and while you feel as if you’re halfway to the stars, you’re still chained to your bones the same as you always are. Bones. Bones that will one day be nothing but dust. Burnt, smashed and scattered in a field destined to be scorched the day the sun swells and eats everything in its path because it’s a greedy guts that wants to eat everything until it bursts because it can and it will. The creative act is a better means to an end, yet it’s a prolonged dance fraught with difficulties, and the struggle to conjure something of merit erodes the soul. The soul. This soul of mine seeks art. Art is the key. Art is a form of self-harm, the sting of its kiss allowing you to both transcend and itch your cage of flesh and neurosis, yet as long as you create, you leave yourself open to attack, and those who need it more are those who often die by their own sword. What else is there, though? There’s nothing. Everything is just a study in how best to efficiently waste time before we snuff it. So around in circles I go, like a nugget of shit refusing to be flushed down the toilet.