A task so daunting. Carbon walls and carbonated anxiety, bubbling black from a pool of unknown origin. Almost always Trek in its introductory appearance. Shadows dancing in the black box, no windows and hidden doors. Tucked away cabinet. Needing to scale rockfaces and climb back up them. Some gym class paranoia where you would rather take the failing grade than partake in this ridiculous shit. Standing on the edge of a plane with your toes teetering over the edge until you’re pushed out. Wait an eternity, try not to throw up, then pull parachute. My hands are already sweating at the thought. Skateboarding tricket, Tony Hawk 900. Rodney Mullen flatland genius skating onward. Black trucks with the yellow wheels. Like a bumblebee, weaving and unevenly flying through the streets. Parked on Pelham. Left on Bedlam. Close my eyes and will my pupils to undilate themselves so that I may see this page clearly and not wish regretful things over the fact that my vision is poor and will never get better no matter how many vitamins I take. Daunting future. Arthur Rimbaud. Baudelaire poetry in an opium den that stinks to high heavens. Debts never paid, clients never leave. If the body is physically alive, it is the death of the Self that very rarely can be reborn. Rare, but not impossible. You must grow a mountain range from your will.