& you were funny enough to trust me with a bottle filled with beautiful white comas of dreaming of snowy suicides
& what's the point in living if no one knows you love them
& no I'm not all the way dead yet but let's just say the clock is ticking
So when you’ve reached the point of wanting to cry over everything you’ve lost out on from an experience to a friend you loved or something deserving of your care
Then tossing away all of that care only to push harder faster stronger towards a brighter future of perceptional purposeful perfection —
You're in areté.
Or
an undefined unrecognized placement of the prior
VOID of your incredulous credibility, spire.
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