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{"It’s 4:05 pm, darkness is mending over the horizon, the city, I’m fighting and thrashing against the flames that shroud. With secrets yet to resign, they dwindle at nightly dusk as it topples over. 
Down here, in the west. Hurricanes come out of nowhere, contaminate and confine, they relinquish hell upon us. As I stand still as a statue, with whiplash after whiplash, intoxicating me with no other alternative in hand. The people grip with vice, their nails digging into the paleness of my flesh. Telling myself, on repeat over and over as stoic, yet mourning for a scream of relapse. 
We thrive off of love that was succumbed and dismissed with the back of a hand to no regard for our spirituality. And we die, against our will. We thrive off of the inhabitants, of nature, though nothing is enough. We cannot fill the jar, so we avoid it along the railways that lead to a journey beyond us. Unlovable, solitude strips our minds away, with our eyes blinded by the rays and scorching light of the sun. Serenity we seek in the plantations, that seize into my nostrils and ignite the flames of California to revive within me. Relinquish my damnation of a soul, off to a scorcher…Solitude isn’t happiness, Isolation will bring our homicidal spirits alive, from the steep hills of paradise. Hide your surprised gauging gaze for when you discover a body floating in the oceans as an object with no more to give than grief. 
One after another, we fall off of the steps, engraved in our souls, they relapsed and stumbled off of the nearest bridge that collapsed with them. In hopes to rest eternally, although life after death taunts them. Hurricanes seize my soul, they repeat after the children of the dead, that isolation is death. I once thought that those tornadoes belonged to the West who abandoned me without looking back. With you standing in front of me, I contemplate against my existence, my foot dangles in thin air, one more step is all that it takes for humanity to love and care, and devote themselves to your vengeance when all is too late. 
With a hand seizing mine, I fall from the horizon. 
The oceanic privilege, the saltiness fills my gaping mouth and chills run through my body at the electricity scorching me alive. Reminds me of a privilege given from birth, to hear, to sense, to feel, to open my eyes without darkness blinding me, grant me my wishes to end, that if I took too much of myself, what would there be left to give? I beg for the ocean that surrounds me and envelopes me with outstretched arms, to save me from myself, with the Los Angeles channel 102.7 in my head on high, just as a flipping switch of what to lose the ocean anchors me lower and lower, a release, it’s only getting worse. The gaslighting people convey, the hypocrisy of a mask they seal their real identity and the reputations they carry. I’ve had enough of fighting with the bare minimum of energy, the light they fed off of, as the reptiles of Sahara. 
Though my heart is now a goner, fragile and demolished, stepped on with sturdy heels. To thrive on the desolation of paradise, to thrive in order to live- the sensations has succumbed into dusk that flows through my hands as if it had never been there before.
My grip on the steep ocean level ignites my desperation, saves me from myself, or seizes my soul. Save me from myself, or grant me an early death.
For I have lost myself in the hurricanes of the Atlantic, and have no longer fight to give.}
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