Abandoned places, trashed, used, sorrowful, lost, ancient, broken like the ejected lung, like the lost minds, like the suicidal thoughts that lurked in the back of your mind which never subsided.
Then the day appeared where every thought solidified as real as the sensitivity of your scar. The exisitence, the omnipresence of pain, the descent of the enduring fallenness. We shattered into pieces then we rose once again as a fragmented vase, as a fragmented ashtray, as a fragmented urinal. Then poke. We shattered once more. As easily as we fragmented. But who cares.