Dreaming of bones in flesh that I haven't had a chance to know yet. I feel like shouting at the arrangement of life, the plan that decided we're all going to be cogs and have no balls and just quietly be. Lie still in our graves.
The futility of wanting and not wanting makes me nauseous. Realising that I'm going to be old and feel the same anger in the base of my stomach makes me feel impotent and weak. With rage and regret laying in the loose folds of my papery skin. I think not giving in to one base instinct after the other is where we're fucking up.