Laci

Eden

I had a childish dependence on you—it was like an indwelling demon, but I’ve since exorcised it from my life. I have enough sense to know now that Freedom’s lips are much sweeter than yours will ever be.

Although I struggled finding my way, mucking about in the damp abyss of my infatuation for you, I could see the blurred promise of an oasis in the distance, beckoning me with the fulfillment and indemnity that Self-Sovereignty would come to occupy in my life.

It’s a lonesome Eden at times, but I’d rather be alone than confined by your suffocating embrace.

A Memento Mori for My Living Corpse

The future is not female. Nor is it male.

The future is death, and you cannot escape it.

Underneath the gloom of the star-deprived night's sky, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, and Cygnus are all but blotted out by metropolitan light-pulse.

The fragrance of jasmine incense still clinging to your bedroom walls in the morning, as rigor mortis greets the first daylight in mourning.

The black mass inhabiting your chest that had you immunosuppressed, tormented and compressed, until it induced cardiac arrest.

An unbalmed body without casket, buried six feet underground takes a decade to decompose–as the echos of weeping friends who never knew your middle name decrescendo, you become fleshmeal to insects and their shadows.

Death is unforgiving and non-discriminatory, so please, live each day with love, passion, and Memento Mori.