We carry ourselves in manners unkempt, fallen from branches of dead trees, moved by the strings attached to our flesh like puppets held by the hands of God or the absence of. Searching for an answer but the answer has all along been inside you, you pull and pull trying to get it out but you’re always pulling at the wrong things leading you to hostility. Guiding that blade to your throat but never touching it to your skin, holding onto the only answers you have been able to find, listening to madness of the street inhabitants, we all carry on you repeat to yourself with an overtone of uncertainty. Tarnished and bruised from love we’ve fallen into and out of, we all carry on. Giving into a hopeless desire to feel the pleasure between your legs and spitting out blood when life gets too rough. Holding hands with strangers guts and bottle-caps twisted from the tops of venomous bottles that seem to wrap themselves around our necks to tie themselves into nooses, we all carry on. Fallen like angels or demons or sacred artifacts we kiss the ground or hit it hard and splatter on the cold, wet pavement—we always loved the rain, but we hated it too. We all carry on.