my brain has begun to crack from the burden of wasted thoughts. cast into unknown darkness, they lay heavy along the walls and rot quietly (but nothing ever dies in total silence). the apparent stench of death intimidates my most trivial thoughts into submission, as the line between purpose and pointless drags thin. they float between the walls of my mind, unable to ever touch ground. tucked inside private rooms, the thoughts worth remembering hold secret meetings in the dark, discussing their existence and the when-why-how of it all. they make sure to whisper so as not to wake me up.
haunted house | Hope Meierkort
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