My head hurts some days. My vision starts to grow weak. My legs are cold, my hands are shaking.My patience is limited, my heart's pulse is narrowed. My work sits upon the fallen grass blades of my patio. Some would call my words pretentious, others would refer to it as abnormal along with the rest of my work. Weakened souls can feel threatened by the unknown. The limited comfort of the understood can rupture in the face of the abstract and unnatural. As I sit through the receptions, intake the words of childish minds, pointless mentionings, I see a limited window of cynicism. Peering into a darkened world where colors only matter, where expansion falls upon deaf ears. I grow tired of others some days. It's why my head starts to hurt. I think I've looked out this window for some time now. I may not truly know what I would ever wish to hear, but I fear the audience I've arisen cannot begin to ever understand. Somehow, the silence and feeling of being alone are more apparent than ever this day.