.

doe-eyed smirks and clownish grins. blistered heels. car alarms. spanish song. filthy glasses. dim-lit daylight. animist concrete. you looked me in the eye and didn't need to ask what i was doing here. i hunt with a skip in my step evading an impending doom depicted by my empty pockets and an unusually defrosted heart. a new kind of kick, a new kind of loneliness. a brutally honest introspective, void of history and ample in context. through futuristic euphoria i have freed myself of haunting nostalgia, and it's about fucking time.