I fashioned myself a hatred for beauty. Envy steeped in alcohol for eight months. I found myself spitting on murals of possibilities and waking up with bloody fists. I sewed into my arm a reminder of the dread of waking. Not that it was necessary, but like a flare shot into the sea, it signaled to the emptiness that I was ready. I woke up vomiting, disgorged a collection of corroded copper coins. Arranging their paltry worth, upon my sunburned chest, and begging anyone to rake them off. I dug into the dew-laden soil, a hole of perfect depth. This accumulated language, bankrupt and tawdry. Throw it in and grasp my throat with fury. Every thought absurd. Every word empty. Every error exposed. Every moment wasted.