I can accept that regret comes for me every night. What I can't accept is that it never climbs any higher. It just lingers at my feet, as though it's developed a very specific fixation…

my cousin died so you could say it was a family tragedy

my virgin origin story: no coke zero at the store

who am i if not a little guy

what if i overdie just a little bit

last spring is a memory of a dream-like quality, this spring is the reality; the riddles are still ongoing, what it the poooooint of the probing; my mind is an imperative, love is subjective - ах ох ау; the coffee is exploring the taste of the wooden floor and my crevices are empty, the light is heavy…

a white boy took my picture tonight and somehow i was kissing my cousin; what are the odds?