The chrome reflects every bridge I’ve
burned, a jagged map of a life lived in the
rearview mirror. I am anchored to this
steel, waiting for the 𝚜͟𝚖͟𝚘͟𝚔͟𝚎 of my past to
finally settle in the cold, industrial air.
Good bye, Occupants. Thank you for the kind words, laughter, and accompaniment inside those endless backroom corridors. May your days outside the backroom will be happier than ever 🤍.
With much love,
The Voices inside of your head.