after eating a whole sheet cake for dinner,
doing a couple rails with comedians,
we made our way to JFK to protest the bullshit.
we found out two things:
the world is fucked,
and rhetorical death is real.
the comedians went back to Brooklyn,
and I got on a plane to anywhere,
questioning the hands I have.
a knife only has two purposes,
to stab and to be cleaned,
these types of thoughts haunt me.
together I know I can't conquer stars,
because I am just a voice
at best, high but afraid of heights.