(Forever More)

There is something in the dusty air, something about the incessant noise and strange eyes in the streets. It makes you want to write, again. It makes you want to feel, and bleed, and distill every last morsel into words until you pass out, spent and emptied, atop the mattress in the corner of your room. It makes you feel again like if you could spend your days in literate lust, you would want for nothing, ask for nothing, you would be whole and invincible.

It occurs to you again, 

that such a possibility

is worth every sacrifice you've ever made
in its name.