A half-life in suspended animation, both floating and sinking in this state of mind I’ve come to know so well as Purgatory. My humanity seems stolen from me, yet I do not begrudge this fact. In fact I welcome the emptiness, for anything can be born from this void. I can feel something, even now.

A pulse. A quickening.

I cultivate the entirety of my being in this place: my desires to destroy, to burn, to dominate, to fuck, to repair, to heal, to refine, and to love and create.

There I lie, utterly spent like some figure famished from a night of complete abandon, when another emerges, a true picture of bored despair, highly effeminate in their gait. Born of my purity. Born of my depravity. They beckon to me, asking, “So what now? I’ve been waiting. Will you bear witness to my story; will you write it true?”

A smile. “Of course I’ll follow. Of course I’ll write it true. There isn’t any other path I’d rather walk.”

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