Forever Is Never

Rain falls from the black sky and lands in inviting entrances, much like a flexing conscience plumbing to the depths of an empty dream as deep as the wrath of an incensed sea, a godless void of distilled vapour lingering like a bipolar assumption. An echo rings out like a bell, water squeezed from a half-dead body limping on through a murky black hallway of shadows. This morning I had a bad headache. I crawled into a comatosed state of realisation, but still clinging to hope in a bestowed angle. I don't really live for the tasteless coffee, those vapid beans crushed to a pulp. I live for wild nights when I have no cares in the world, no fears, when I can hang from gold lamps of a pleasure fortress and know my body was made for this. That's why I've never really considered slowing down, although the thought has been flickering in my mind. I've never given life to the thought. I've been high for so many years, I'm not attracted to the mundane yawn which is jejune and boring. I'm aching in the childlike simplicity of hunger, but I'm hungry for danger.