The intensity in the brain the facade of her well being, jolting the same old name, she is two people, and it is what she believes, bipolar, it is true. Following nothing, following nothing. Inking thoughts, thoughts, that is all they are. Just like an object, pointless. Steady headed, she is boring, linear. Guided by fear of white spaces in every crack of the brain, ugly face again. How on earth is surviving anywhere near, if it is so depressing. She is steady, no vernacular. Boring, habits forming non-motivational habits forming. Forming a line around her body, how will she move, a red line around her body, force so controlling.
Animated sloppiness. Down-low. Determinate the spine to a halt, gouge the eyes with the ink pen to the skull, but there is no backside at the end of it. A visit from the other please, let the other come out. She wants her mania back, none of this non-motivational side, gouge her eyes with the ink pen gouge them out. Her pacing is array, her pacing she misses, if so she could write better, and get it all out. So she gets her busiest, most messiest, electronic music, loud and out. Mind go crazy, she is addicted to mania, her pill’s work too well.
A plateau, her mind is and boring she is mad forgetful, unlikely to think even poetically, none the less even likely to write a story, bullets protruding her empty soul forego the excellent soundtrack of her life. Sometimes useful, sometimes outright strange, dead, uneventful. Clear in the background, compete she rests no more bleeding out poring out methodically drowning in her own piss and shit nothing makes any sense why try.



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