Of kings 

Perhaps it’s unsurprising that in a darkened room, where all thoughts are gas chambers disguised as diamonds the only person who would shine bright like a;   In all her delirious glory, the Columbia queen. That the only story that needs to be written is of desperado and the knife in her back, partnered with a woman who can’t understand the reason why black lives matter or why, if at all, any life should matter and in a momentary lapse of reason might find herself in a crystal maze and become entrapment, the very embodiment of couldn’t care less but if only for a moment there was a reason to care and she could care for herself would it be possible or even responsible to care for herself and is the ending start an option, well it must be if all loves are suicides than all beginnings are endings of some form or another than it must be reinvention to keep going and build a new path, a better path and no longer view oneself as a pig in a cage on antibiotics. 

  Do you even remember the last time you listened to Radiohead or for that matter the first time? Or the first song? Or the feeling it resonated? 

  The Columbia queen laughs at you, but really she must be crying, it’s been a long time since you’ve written anything new. 


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