I sit in ways that draw my body closer to myself. Cross-legged and my chest drawn close to my knees. I like to keep me near or I wander. My heart wanders, my mind wanders, my roaming feet beneath me, crashing knocked knees to pavement. My body is coloured in white and red scars. Reminder: the ones that love you love your scars as much as a pretty face. And the ones I love the most are the broken, the incomplete, the partially dead. There is a beauty in deterioration, particularly of the soul. Like an abandoned Detroit music hall, once a destination of mass delight; pianos overturned as if a crowd had narrowly escaped. Now dust and weeds, all quiet but for the weary creak that begs attendance. Gentrification not impossible and never far off with a little affection, a little love, belief. A revamp, revival. Because all of life lies in cyclical action, awaiting rise. We can do anything with dedicated time. Blow out your cobwebs where love died. Don’t bring me the hopeful, bring me the cynical. Don’t bring me the charmed, bring me the tortured, bring me the damaged. Give me a soul to play with, a soul to boost and compel. Give me a challenge. The lost faith. Give me a rampant soul, of broken morals and skewed consciousness. Give me something I can really love, not something that will make me happy. I don’t seek to be happy, I seek stimulation; a reason for my heart to still, for my mind to focus. A purpose.

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