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Not as much in coexistence as causality, two things often can't exist without the other. Like life and death, being and not, like a child creates the mother. You can hardly claim to be a sea when not locked in by land, keeping in mind the ebbing waves that break apart the shores which understand that salt water and old wood are likes blood and bloated marrow. That the ripples caressing the mossy rocks hardly ever attract stares, no. A poetic, photographic, artistic view is usually what it takes to be displayed to you. In a form that exists within a frame, but my eyes only see about one hundred ninety degrees, so I guess it'll still be the same. I just want you to listen. To the frogs which glide across the rocks that glisten. Smell, the Hells in which the mushrooms grow and dwell in decay. A sense of death and rot surprisingly okay. An end to which the means are fit to spend time admiring. With a thousand synapses firing, connect the dots. Pop your joints and their locks. Walk without music. Talk without abusing it. The stock phrases and replies without trying to avoid contrived lying. Not because you're hiding your day wasn't okay, but because tact dictates that as this apathy cultivates, you can't manipulate a casual passing of friends that should end in laughing. Empty. Hollow. For the conversation won't go unless you follow this explicit script. Of 'Shut up and give it nothing'. You don't have friends, you have audiences. To talk at, and not talk to. You'd love to if you had motivation, but you don't. You have far too many reservations. Because you know a heart spilt to you would be a burden of two charts. Running both up and down, but as far as you communicate, the blankness eats the slate.