In this culture diet, at night, I consume art with bulimia.
I am searching for truth in media, like a junkie searches food in a garbage bin.
My creative juices; sold in an unholy agreement to a thirsty capitalist.
The door is open; but I haven’t learned to walk completely on my own.
My knees bruised, I put them on ice every night and I try again tomorrow.
Mid thirties, eating 0% fat yogurt, on my sofa I consume art.
