I side step my trepidation and confess my messy state, expressing my wrecked expectations of an uncontested fate. It's similar to a catch 22 when you're wet from exit wounds you have entered yourself into. The scene is dismal at best, but at least I'm no longer confined like a criminal with minimal routes to redemption. My hunger exceeds my temptation to starve myself for sinful deeds, feeding off poetic needs, I see. Murdering words to free my anguish, I vanquish language to rearrange my mental status. As the music fades the pain rains upon me, it's daunting, the airing out of this dirty laundry. It's me I see, free.