Still partially inebriated Devoid of all thought. As I lose the grip on escapism, the concept of realism returns. Returns and suffocates, a perpetual dance of mockery. And so I fall, fall back into the cruel clutches of routine. Until next time, where I will escape, but undoubtedly come running back home. Still comforted in self-delusion. Still hallucinating freedom, the mirage of truth, the fallacy of good.