happy birthday, happy birthday to you. (eight years now, and we still aren't any closer to knowing what this entails.)
this the etude, preparation for a life that offers you nothing but empty. blank walls. museums of contemporary furniture. careening promises tipping over into impossibilities, all grounded in artifice.
such is such is such is and just sit still, they tell me.
ha. let me trace my blood and i'll show you why.