… eh.. brooke.

Thinking about you a bit today Brooke.  Your sickness, your choices, and the disparities your life played in the shadows in the despair, how to live, image, draw breath and existence and compulsion.  Wonder how your bones supported your choices, identity, your muscle mass sure failed in the compartmentalisation of the gravity of it all, the cement reflected the greyness. The  gaps, so hollow and callousness and caustic measure of the masses can be enigmatic, clandestine,  the foreboding the nature of diming interior and exterior so ugh like weathered plastic. We ignorantly buried our brains and covered our eyes. Prime examples of the observe effect. On many occasions you said you felt as if you were dying. You were. Only a matter of when, not how.  If only you chose to consume your beautifully arranged and packaged architectures, containers, of survival constrains of hopes, perhaps it would have been enough for a while. Thinking, viewing, impaired of fridge and freezer compatriots, barriers, and sentences.  No point in analyzing, signalling what your heart and electrical pulses cannot rearrange, sustain, and contain reiterate . Every time I see a skeleton, even the rubber ones, I think of you. I just want to add water, instant joggers and a see a sense of detachment, red hat, gold jewellery and a fine eclectic love of tattoos. Boom- jutting bones, a black board sketch of you. You are right, dead. Right. Sometimes apologies will never satisfy the masses. 

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