The sonic boom of a bullet train, the coy and sinister way someone dodges blame, every fucking poem is based on the same tired thing: vowels. Owls. The rats are jumping ship every word under the sun cannot paint the sorrow of it.

So?
You have me there. I'll have another, try to forget I ever wrote any of this.
There will come a time and place when your ability to cleverly forget will haunt you so.
I don't care about your prophecies. Besides, you're lying.
Am I?
Trust me, there's nothing here but doom. One of these days I'm going to-

Today's theme was 'Ghost' wasn't it?
It was.
Then why can't you accept that?

One last thing to say? What does the fox say? Tell me.
Twisted oblivion, the blackness of a page like hypnosis, the words swirl in a storm and though sense is my wish the only form they ever take is a certain sorrowful chaos. Truth is my continued existence was an accident, I should have ceased to be long ago.