It’s an unknown pleasure that makes one show their lowest traits, and an unfamiliar fear that puts out highly regarded manners on display.

The sun is going down - giving a red light to the up going curve on my lips until darkness entirely blocks it out. The subtly sparkling static stars make this melancholic time seem never ending when both left and right appear to be dark.
              They make you catch a glimpse of something you shouldn’t have seen, like when your mind wonders to land of sure sin.       
                      
            Images kick in and I cannot breathe, the air is thick and my patience is thin, I’m quite worn out to a point below feeling down, when I reach out I .. end up on the ground.
But the following day saliva in the sun is holographic when I’m passing out in a field from dehydration and a long extension of deprivation, 
                  
                            Relinquishing thoughts, lingering touch,
When I try to stand up I feel my knees go weak, they’re being crushed under the weight that my body lost but my conscience gained.        It’s moving electricity, her dreams are publicity,
similar to the sun in the big sky, burning up, high up, tainting everything around it and bringing my thoughts to a simmer until they evaporate making me feel the butterflies in my stomach slowly die off like the false optimism that obliges me to think that they are a symbol of peaking infatuation when in fact they are a symbol of peak degradation with the chemicals flowing up and down my throat being their wind.