you can feel the change coming not on the winds but in the smoke. i mark windows by their hate and pick which ones i would throw a molotov into first. i leave graffiti tags that beg for me to be remembered in the face of those who wash them away. there is no one left who will listen to me what i have to say. my art loses direction and becomes angry. the only metaphors left involve my own blood. i find new meaning in brimstone and hellfire.

this change had to come sooner than later, and they don’t have the right to be upset that it will hurt.  

violence begets violence and I am the other shoe.  everyone sighs in my direction with the same helpless wish for the sun to not set.  they see my night coming and they cannot stop me.  i am an agoraphobic revolutionary.  a product of my time.  the world will burn and i will burn with it.  until i am gone.  until there is no world left to burn.