I’m doing well I suppose,
I remember worse times, the worst,
Running on empty vessels as all the blood went to my brain, and my heart and made me a-buzz with fear and haste and agitation for months.
When I stood shaking in the shower, feeling odd in my own body, feeling strange behind the glassy plastic.
People who think of Rick as grandpa are missing out on his sex appeal.
Stop relating with Morty people.
You’re relating with Morty too hard.
And in this present moment, on the other side of town.
Another mind aches as yours does.
A kindred Sorrow over brick walls and rooftops.
A Sorrow builds and grows in fluxing rivets, unpleasant surging swell,
renewal taking strength from hordes of sources,
running together, coming together,
into a living organ that reaches into living things.
It doesn’t remain shadowy.
It was never abstract.
And the lucky are touched by it’s delicate hand,
And the rest are stomped into the tread of it’s boot.
Wet hands smooth the grit to a paste,
Build-up layers of flesh into a flat figure of beauty.
No laugh behind her eyes, no thoughts in her alabaster skull, curls with no movement.
Belly fireless, filled with nothing but more grit and the lust of her maker.
Something simple can be complicated by years of conditioning, and the condition of an individual’s state of mind can be so wholly warped into stone through generations of insidious whittling.