pandemonium

How do you know when you've hit rock bottom?

Is it the clammy, sticky mess welling up in the coffee filter of your soul?

The dried blood crusting up behind your eyes?

Or maybe it's the dreary enema of waking existence where you don't move through life so much as stand still and let it pass through you, taking and leaving what it will; where you wake up with the express intent of going back to bed as soon as possible, when suddenly the sun doesn't shine so much as scream, each day is no longer a series of events but merely the amount of wasted time in-between each jerk-off session and you force yourself to stay awake nights doing nothing simply because you know that when you sleep the next day will come that much quicker.

Is that life?

Is that any way to live?

Or maybe I've just been away for so long I've forgotten what it was like to enjoy a sunset, listen to the forest at night or kiss someone with my lips and not my just my eyes.

But I'd swear I was warmer when I'm all alone