My words, my worries, lack depth. No longer do I ruminate on the philosophies of shadows and light and personhood. It’s evident as you read back, back, backwards into the vaults of this record, into the journals hidden behind my paperbacks and novels and the volumes of poetry that now hides its beauty from my crass heart. I am alright with being less, so long as I have substance, but I’ve lost this as well. Neither gravity nor wings, I float in an ether neither beautiful nor grotesque, not even this or that. Why? Because I consume, I gorge, I choke on the poisonous foam of Internet fluff.