as the myths fully fade, leaving you empty, you wonder if this death is the medicine or the disease, if this peace is beautiful, if this place is worthwhile between passion and pentacost, in recesses and lengthening pauses where landlord white spreads, in the same way water settles, finding its level to the furthest periphery. you decide, with fire extinguisher held in your hand, nozzle pressed, no purpose left in its emissions, that there's no harm in holding a little bit longer for fear of ever burning again.













