I'm a long way from home, and every step closer feels less tangible, feels a lifetime further away.
I've written myself into empty hope, plotted my own failure, and condemned the past to contend with my presence.
Lost in obsession, the existence of which strangles reality from every notion of time or location, my mind's resigned to wander with familiar strides, and content to march with delirious clarity down a destructive warpath it knows I'd rather avoid.
But I can't look away.
This machine shares my name.
Each ember that falls from its remains, falls from me, is me, is my brush with perfection, is the future I wish not to attain and the past I wish not to have broken.
I've traded lost in the current for trapped in the stagnant.
But I can't look back.
My eyes have no vessel to take me.