I am not seeing my breath. I am seeing miles as vapor, and each puff of white is another border, another city, another state. Each buffeting gust of the arctic airs that stunned me for the past three years was another room where I'd lay with unworthy after unworthy, forced by circumstance to sully the trinity of my soul, my Self, and my purest skin.

Now I feel the rising echo of my name again, my name you murmur as you bite into the blood that fills your lips while they use you. You long to be clean and warm and strong, as I long to be clean and warm and strong again, cleansed by light, by true love, by the sheer motivation to believe in faith, at last.

My departure was my own will, brought about by the beasts that coiled their dirty claws around my synapses and loins, drawing me away from my home by the sea. It destroyed me to orchestrate my own abduction. My unconsciousness could not come soon enough, even as it was at the behest of this endless self-beating.

I have been tied down many times. And I have always risen again.

In the skin of another I raised the blackjack above my face again, and again, asking myself one question; and as the thuds echoed flatly from the dampening of my flesh - and I sealed the fate of my blood one day filling my throat - I replied:

"I am not yet a man."

Things have changed. My tendons once locked as by azoturia have titanium strength and flex and bend, and my muscles have steeled even as my body atrophied under the burden of my brain.

I can feel the heat in my blood as I tear from the radiator bars that have kept me safe and screeching. I am healing as I rise, leaving my poor rendition of a man in a pulp of red wet that I spit upon as he begins to decay and slough from me, a death shell coruscating in a mist of red.

In my past I would defecate and wait for death, sleep, breathe and eat. I have recolonized, rising from my slow suicide to burn white, to decide life/death for galaxies, and to ignite, to warm and warn, to become solace, respite, strategy.

I am a recreation, god-complicated and driven, fueled to run these torn and deranged paved streets, eyes unbloodied and non-blinking, peering through molecules to catch the signature of human heat, silencing every-one and every-thing that prevents the possibility of a whisper from reaching my ear, driven headlong across mad America.

I am courtesan and chauffeur, carriage and armored car; I am a tank and I am driven.

I am in facet a mastermind.

I am driven.

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