I like to write sort of a lot.

A lot.

And I don't even know why.

It's like... Screaming out into the void.

Whether it's as a musician in front of millions of fans or as a comedian, joking into your camera or here.

On an app.

Typing.

Just... Typing.

It's all the same.

It's a rush.

It's like...

You know that thing that happens with oxygen?

How it breaks down food, practically setting it all on fire inside our bodies?

Writing is like breathing in pure flame.

Like sucking in all the madness and letting it go in one smooth, azure puff of dark smoke.

And its gorgeous and its tragic and its so insane you aren't sure if you're even on the ground at all.

You're floating.

You're far off.

Going, going,

Gone...

My body and I have had out issues, I suppose.

For too many years.

I guess it shouldn't be surprising that it got so bad I began to leave it completely, as if one piece of me was repulsed with the other.

Fighting for autonomy when you're stuck with yourself,

How weird and how human is that?

Maybe it's a way of telling my alien brethren to finally get me the hell out of here.

But here is home, even if it's never really felt like it.

And that's just how it goes.

Words of a broken record who will break and mend and break and mend again and again..

That's how it all goes.

What a slow, pretty, strange way to gradually, finally die.