Did you think it could go on forever, this whole art thing, this creativity at all costs, this longing for words to improve the atmosphere, this lust for rhythm in the tongue, this leapfrogging over bills to get to treasure, this break in the responsibility for material survival, this fantasy of music on the lips even as the big heart inside is faltering, this open invitation to peek at your shit, this diving, this digging, this stink of flop sweat, this perfuming, this velveteen drama, this pose you pretend is purely accidental? Do you understand how close you still stand to where you born, to how you came out squalling and stayed squalling? At least you got — what was it you got from all this again?
Dark Matter 
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