On Religion and Living I plot out my life like the stanzas of an over-structured poem, missing the joy of meaning something beautiful- and death like water bugs constantly skimming the surface of my murky waters -the end- those words comfort me more then the fact that the devil is crawling past my ears and into my twisted heart. At mass, I dreamed of incest, at night I tore out chunks of hair until I became as bald as monks chanting Latin in a psychedelic parody of religious fervor at the sight of ambiguous smoke filling the sky.
I wanted to end where I started in blood and water and silence and fear of something new, but you lifted me out of the bath tub and breathed life back into my lungs until I cried like an asthmatic infant.
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