Every day I'm taken to my knees at the plethora of bullshit compounding infinitely.
I fill journals, post-its, and apps.
I write pages in the morning or sitting in the bath
Trying my best to make sense of the avalanche of potential nothings in front of me.
I've kept papers as far back as Elementary school.
My drawers are filled to the brim with words strung together in hopes of making sense of my senselessness.
I'm no better than the person with an overflowing wardrobe woven from Capitalism and underpaid wages.
