madness. i've reached it; i've felt it; i feel it. i became an addict clinging to my narcotic, my gateway, my iron clad chains i didn't want unlocked, my religion. A potter can only attempt to sculpt his clay in a way so similar to the twisted and coiled disarrayed vessel i've become. the cracks have formed over time, linking themselves to one another and forcing their way through what used to be resilient. He can, however, glaze over the cracks, gently masking them for a time. your supplied vapor; a poisonous venom that often wafts and dances through the air, lifting me to a higher state of intoxication than i've ever felt before. Unable to defy gravity, i must come down. The crash; the crash, the potter cannot prevent. No matter the labor, the pain, the infinite amounts of time, the potter cannot repair the broken and distorted that now remain lifeless on the pavement. the glaze will never mask, and the hands will never heal the sharp edges that will slowly wither and fade to dust; back to it's origin, only to be reshaped, for another day.
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