Behind the shells of my eyelids droplets of purple ink pulsed against the dark blue of the iris.

A heavy breathing resonated from the other side of the room and the rain and wind howled together at the window, mercilessly and without purpose.

The technicalities of a new year are written on paper, but the transition is just another day in which we go about our standardized routines; some clutching their heads and their guts in joyous resentment. Others fresh faced and jovial, hoping that two thousand and sixteen will be a more fruitful and prosperous year than the last. Little do they know, it’s all the fucking same.

We will be faced with wars, propaganda, tomfoolery, happiness, alcoholism, death, screens, diets, disasters and diabetes. We will hope and hate in much the same way as we always do, just a tad closer to the end. So wallow in your self pity and your holier than though ethical choices, your pockets of money and your sleeping bags.

There is only one door, so best not be afraid of it.


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