I just turned 36. My shit is far from together. I can’t hold a job. I want to create, but it all turns to ash. I see beauty and imagine beautiful things, but what I create becomes shit. I believe I may be experiencing a type of Stockholm syndrome, but I would never say that out loud. The fear is too great. I watch the scenery explode around me. But still I am still. Still toward the nothing my life has become. I try to rally, but am stifled. I can’t seem to breathe. It’s the nothing my life has become. Breathless, nothing. Blanco.