We're running out of time .

We're Always running out of times.

Haven't eaten;

Kesha—Birkin—

Sorry, Conan,

Haven't pondered

(Fight!)

There you are;

Equinox mornings

Getting lost

(Fun)

Doesn't shove

Croissants down the throat

As long as I'm on the island

(What?)

Long day;

Never money

Haven't got a

(Cat!)

Sanctuary

(doves)

Jimmy Fallon?

Never found him

(What?)

Pools of blood,

Nevermind that.

I was so sick the night before,

Even in my sleep that I thought to call out.

But no,

“I don't skip freaky friday.”

I hadn't yet, and so my streak was valid, but I felt like shit, and despite my sponsorship I didn't feel I had any interest in DJing at all.

The apertment was a mess, and though I'd spent the day before for hours cleaning in all the crevices the cat found that I hadn't, it still wasn't perfect— then, why would I try to make it perfect on the brink of eviction with the dread and depression that came with the noise?

I wanted to fucking die, and the long hours not spent sorting through my hard drives were instead spent watching Saturday night live and funneling popped corn into my mouth, because indeed— I was actually, finally, chrnically depressed.

It could be written off as some coincidence or extreme city noise, but I knew in my heart it was instead asassination, the apartment was a trap and I'd been set up to be weakened enough to eventually either kill myself, or back to homelessness to die.

The least thing I was interested in was music, and apparently, though I'd had thousands of dollars somewhere in unclaimed royalties , I couldn't seem to find my EIN— the business tax ID I needed to file papers, because I didn't use it often enough; I didn't file taxes, because I wasn't making money.

(At least, I'd thought I hadn't.)

I couldn't even remember which subway stop was the correct one; and I knew with this I must have been coming to the end of my time in New York; everything seemed strange and faraway, as if I were in a dream.

L E G E N D S: ICONS

{Enter The Multiverse}

He's heaven

But i'm probably his headache

What's a medical assessment to lemon merengue

And I wish to that same heaven that we're all as sick

As what's disturbed to be described by

Highest our physicians can abide

Just the though of him,

The whispers of prolific;

Just the sight,

I get to writing thoughts

As if the words were mine,

But still,

The caves of wells kept secret,

Pure and water like the thoughts,

Are just the parallels od subtle secrets

Kept inside a box

This could be mine,

Dammit, a glimpse—

Who are I?

Caught in a wince with the glimpse of a notion

And putting out fires—

Who are I?

You call?

In the midsts of a morning,

Worlds over,

Neglected,

No former recognition, but

Who are you for?

Not mine,

But still a world of sure

For art mines

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