Descending upon the arc of this great forgotten city, where cowboys search in slumber for adequate bathrooms and storage spaces for drowning mermaids. Feathered crowns dust imperial shores where knighted waitresses swim in search of old loves and bronze combs with which to glide through the empires of their tresses. Twitching pilots seek to help them explore a village un-acquainted with disdain for pearls and perils of the saddest kind, only they realize upon their journey through the overstretched sea that nothing can be found or felt when the absence of love saturates your mouth so that even you know all to well what it’s like to stand on your own feet and it is then you realize when out of love that swimming is effortless and without point.
This is not how it should be, I assure you. I have noticed though that with a substantial decrease in my anxiety has come perhaps a coincidental but distinct decrease in the amount of my writing.
I am aware that these phases exist where every word that leaks from your hand seems to only induce nausea and embarrassment, but I know that consecutive love of ink only strengthens the boat which holds my heart. I smell bleach and nausea, aquatic billows of smoke and saline and punctured ligaments that dwell in-utero while absorbing stereophonic cells and laborious tunnels of all that is plain to the eye, all that is landing.