I was always such a picky eater as a child, the mere thought of trying new foods would make me so nervous and scared that I would cry sometimes.
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I surrender a poem instead into your steady palm,
which lies open on my thigh, waiting.
Work Ethic and I
are at a crowded Penn Station,
standing in front of the Big Board,
waiting for our track to flash.
The froth of the ocean is warmer to the touch than the still water
It crackles against my palm and leaves behind its
residue when receding back in on itself.
!['[Why do people die as volume...]', by Mykyta Ryzhykh](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59aef3bacd39c38dabcb0dc2/1720499139764-4849B0NIDDZGFZZJ5CT2/Screenshot+2024-07-08+at+23.24.21.png)
The night never ends anywhere. There are only two of us: me and death. I am always alone. Conscious death does not exist: however, as well as conscious life.
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The revolution still waits for us.
The friend with open arms
Is still smiling.
