It’s all too much, you hear yourself whisper in the mirror, unwilling to say the words with your back straight, with your voice loud. Eons of regret build beneath your skin like boils, they bubble to the surface like bee stings, you long for the road and your car and you know, you know, that it’s only your broken insides masquerading as freedom, this mental illness has been glorified for too long, you’re ready for your reward now.
New York rumbles underneath your feet.
You cannot feel a thing.
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