Just. (Art and writing form the Archives Part I)

I can smell it coming down the pipe, my nose pressed against the barometer of predication. I will pull away and leave a ring and a residue, trailing my extension those close to me are picking up its trace, this old dog is learning new tricks. There is no need for dance and for games, this waltz has no smiles, this precession travels a different way. I am no more use to memory than I am to having it.

Tricks and mingling, a fickle fight an agonistic digression, these are but playful in pretense of the martial and militant internecine that any energy which stands in my way will feel. I may not be standing at the consummative conclusion of this aforementioned waltz but I will not be on my knees.

Finding myself content is a serum, and I drink it.

I am the keeper of something truly spectacular and I in my duplicitous nature, in one swift motion if given the chance could and would share this with the world and keep it to my own selfish needs, all in the same moment. ....

I know I will never escape this place alone; I need a gatekeeper, a guide. Unknowing she will arrive and set me free and although, unshackled, the cell will follow me for life but now I am on the outside, and thus the keeper is mine instead, a sweet justice for the greater good


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