reading over past selves

do we stop or do we stay the same? how strange it is to fall away from yourself so much that you don't even wish the stanza by rilke that iterates this thought in you, over, and over again. shostakovich, rattling bones, the glare of the executioner's light and a box that wants to tell so strugglingly what you cannot. mind caught in a morgue practitioner's cast of wax. it's always sunny in los angeles. kind of afraid i'll never get out of this traumaspace. kind of afraid of the day i'll get out of it. opening it up is like greeting the unabomber. will it break me, splinter us, tear into you? it's just a stupid box.