imagine somebody thrusting your body off of an airplane 40,000 feet in the air. only thing is, I'm not in an airplane. I'm in a beige Honda NSX perched on top of a hillside, overlooking the violent waves below. contrasting with the sunburnt horizon. your first inital smell would be of something malignantly strong, something requiring hurculean lungs to inhale. only thing is, it's not legal. I've been smoking hard substances and sipping absinthe for as long as my mind fails to remember, and, it's not a sultry addiction that keeps me hooked on the dangerous duo. now, back to me falling from that plane. It's not a plane I'm falling from. it's my sanity. an ensign of me, Johnny Bodega, slipping from the decorum I once honed. Now the only thing between me and the burning embers of hell is the likelihood of somebody walking up on my side window and emptying a bullet in my head. Why am I here? I don't even know myself. Must be one of the things I'm due to accomplish for this bucket list. unless, you want to go back in time and take sympathy in my life story.. well, where to begin? The breakup? The sabotage? That fateful day? i guess I'll pull it back to the start.
Walk with me. Glide with my subconscious.
