Dead by twenty-seven was the the goal I had set as she (platonic, in both ways) told me that I'd been drinking too much, smoking too much, fucking around (but not in those words)...too...much. I said that I preferred burning brightly then fizzling into the lost entrails of mimetic archaeology, meaningless and disappeared, no longer a burden. She said nothing but she stayed (which is all that she could do); little did she know I was teetering on the brink of insanity, an abyss I finally fell into, a powerful blip in my own archaeology.
It is one week before my twenty-seventh birthday. I've been beaten and bruised, scarred and weakened....Yet! As the driver was not looking and the car jolted forward, I--the foot soldier--jumped to avoid it. Dead by twenty-seven was the goal I had set and yet (and yet and yet) I'm still standing, GODDAMMIT, and I want to live.