There is no solace. The bastard offspring of advances in the name of detachment, bred without shame for replacement parts, disconnecting nature from nurture. Artless. Ambivalent. Fabricated corporality. Birth without growth. Calculated lust without chord or creation. I
want to scratch the surface; someone else's memories beyond these walls. I want a home that is my own. Can my mind even wander if someone else has staked their claim on it? Is there a place to speak softly? These thoughts must be put to rest. We're conceived in
misconception. We are warmth in vacant wombs. We are birthed with perfect posture, arms held high and heads hung low. I'm not waiting for the truth. I'm not leaving myself open. I'm a product of perception, of perspective, life less loved. We're conceived in
misconception. We are warmth in vacant wombs. We are birthed with perfect posture, arms held high and heads hung low. We are raised to give all that we have and then we die. Will you still be there to hear my whispers? To hold my hand when it's almost over? Will we find
safety in the autumn weather? Without a care for the time or place? Is it okay for me to still be scared of what comes next or what I'll leave behind? And though my body becomes cold and broken, I am complete.