Once we were slaves in the land of Egypt.
It hurts my eyes to look through a telescope as His reflection joins me in the mirror.
I feel sentimental over champagne, whispering until
1, 2, 3
In the morning.
The prison lets me keep my notes, my personal effects feel nostalgic.
Watching the guards I see how it is called madness.
I see how I have secured myself within my own nothingness same as walls.
We began painting the loft as you stated your reasons for not wanting to see the doctor.
I am patient as his sorrow feels the troubles he was served at breakfast.
Majesty but never madness,
your paint covers the smell of my sins…