…I spaced through time on a whim. Not longing, but still craving your attention. See, I already had enough. Enough of the endless cycle of self-judgement, self-loathing, and your own ability to calculate my specific figure.

You see, “ya boy” wants to be infallible, especially in presence. All spaces and places should take hold of his words, as if command was pulled from a clowns nose. Bish please, he told himself, you can talk as much you want but they'll never love you.

“Jah bless”, said that narrator, you can write as little as you want because they'll always be another good writer. And they'll always be another server. We out here. Literally, archiving our sentence disposition and pretty, pretty, pretty sentence flow like bolts on a treadmill.

Yet, I can’t get over myself. We can’t get over ourselves. Fuck my words, or suck on them. You’re choice, and apparently mine. But in a medium moving a mile a minute, we out here, literally, and desperately trying to set ourselves apart. We trying to be beautiful while ageing further past 100 with every second breath. Crisp. Refreshing. Hopeless?

There’s always another level.

The human race is going to Marz.

How will you be remembered?