At this hour there is no one to explain the importance of a good night's sleep. But the wear and tear of 40+ years is imprinted deep in facial weathering. PTSD, if memories of recent years begin to put their weight on my heavy focus. The heart, broken. The Spirit, maybe in name only, how would I know if one is sharing the air? Addictions, fed fanatically. Whatever vice may fit - the 'authorities' will do the labeling, and create the metadata, and encoding. Whatever the coffers want the description to say will be the story told until the other version has less plot holes. Character development shaping into a semblance of someone everyone has at some point known. The hard luck story that had enough momentum to fail on it's own without outside persistence doubling down on the speculative bubble bursting on the markers suspiciously placed before hand. They wonder how it is I am still surviving, but that's a definition that has a different way of presenting living and dying, and dead I am. A ghost haunted awaiting the exorcism, but still unknown in that realm. Unheard, though my words are intuitive, formed with clairvoyance, though often discursive, no one accepts poetic licensing, the facts are complex, discouraging the checks that prove sound advice. But who would listen to the scapegoat that hasn't even done that right?

Yet...

Aware I'm still smothered by ulterior motives of evil with a heavy hand and a distaste for altered plans.

© Alien.S