There are pulses on the skin of my teeth that withdraw into comfort once nourished by disgraces onto perplexity. I know where I’ve been and what I’ve done and all my regret is tied into comfort for now, somehow all that went wrong was correct to find myself here.
United but not withdrawn from the chaos and the boredom.
Goosebumps are solidarity, I’m onto something good.
petrichor - archive 