Trio No. 2 in Catastrophic Minor

    It’s the point when life itself becomes your own Hell, no longer is your prison the single skin but the room you inhabit, the area you’re contained within. Encompassing the best we know, we lose ourselves in our false realities and insecurities, dwelling to the frequency we twiddle at. Am I red or am I blue, losing myself to the depths I know, infinite in the sense that I will never stop or begin for I expand from the central point in equal ratio to all my other pieces. The farther I throw the longer I gasp for breath, and when does my crunch take place? Collisions are the only thing keeping me connected to myself, I should be grateful.