Imaginary Habits

Is it escape? I'm tempted to define it so, pulled by my distaste to... suspect. Generally, if a possible answer displeases me I reckon it must be worth some consideration due to my vanity and skill at self-deception. It is escape. And again, partial truth raises her semidivine eyebrow at my fumbling proposals(we expect the melodrama and move on), floundering through hundred floor office buildings staffed with bureaucratic hypnotists, past burnt plastic blackened chrome still smoking love wreckage(some fires never go out, dearie, long after the fuel runs dry). I don't believe in myself, in possibilities b-because I dream too much, I dream too much, I dream too much, I dream too much, I dream too much and somehow still expect nothing, and simply end up ending up.

Frustrated even especially in satisfaction. Restless always even at rest.

It is an escape. True, true. It doesn't matter. Let it. Let it! Because that isn't all. It doesn't matter. Escape is fucking fantastic when you need it, people being rescued from burning buildings aren't all "hey put me down this isn't a constructive use of my time."

Escape is part of it, and I enjoy it! It's OK to do that! And it's writing? Sure it is. I'm supposed to be doing that, right? Didn't I make a pact with myself, wasn't that me, eyes burning with smoke and sex while I signed in charcoal ciphers that contract(horned, white masked, red gowned mirror), my name spelled out i-in architectural histories, cracked through with our fast approaching betrayals(some tides never recede, dearie, long after the moon slips by).

Everything doesn't have to be afterwards, in relation, subject to. No! There are islands, I tell you! That can't be navigated to, can't be found, or founded, mapped or catalogued-