It’s the end of the world and also early October. I’m on the balcony of my broke-ass apartment reading James Schuyler and listening to Van Morrison. In a way, everyone’s life is better than mine, but only in the way everyone’s life is better than anyone’s. We’re all so alone in our perfection. Whatever shitty music I’m listening to right now is better than whatever shitty music you’re listening to the instant I brag about it on Twitter. My face on Instagram is better than your face facedown in your bed, which is more beautiful than all the filters because it’s a feeling I can’t have right now. I can’t feel anything right now because all I’m doing is writing, and writing is a piece-of-shit thing some people do with a laptop in their laps and the wind at their feet. Think of the darkness I’m looking at now. Whatever you want the darkness I’m looking at to be in a piece of art, I’m going to fuck up, because I’m a failure. I fail harder than that darkness is dark. Whatever you want to dream now, if you haven’t put this poem down yet, is a wish for this poem to get you out of this poem, because the darkness I’m pretending to describe is not as dark as your darkness, you dark fucker. I’ve been deep into the darkness. I’ve been close to some dark mothers. I never met anyone like you. What’s wrong with you? Come back. Stop what you’re doing. Be among us here where everything makes sense.