@sharpsorcerer117

@sharpsorcerer117

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This is referring to someone that is coming out of a bipolar induced psychosis: When it is over I wake, but waking is only another form of waiting with the lights turned on and the mouth still tasting of copper and ash. (Do not add the text to the image) She should also have hospital identification bands on her wrists.

This is referring to someone that is coming out of a bipolar induced psychosis: When it is over I wake, but waking is only another form of waiting with the lights turned on and the mouth still tasting of copper and ash. (Do not add the text to the image) She should also have hospital identification bands on her wrists.

This is referring to someone that is coming out of a bipolar induced psychosis: When it is over I wake, but waking is only another form of waiting with the lights turned on and the mouth still tasting of copper and ash.

This is referring to someone that is coming out of a bipolar induced psychosis: When it is over I wake, but waking is only another form of waiting with the lights turned on and the mouth still tasting of copper and ash.

When it is over I wake, but waking is only another form of waiting with the lights turned on and the mouth still tasting of copper and ash. The moon is still there, its crack glistening like a wound that has never closed, never scarred, never learned anything except how to open again. The air around it smells of ozone. The pendulum begins to move.

When it is over I wake, but waking is only another form of waiting with the lights turned on and the mouth still tasting of copper and ash. The moon is still there, its crack glistening like a wound that has never closed, never scarred, never learned anything except how to open again. The air around it smells of ozone. The pendulum begins to move.

When it is over I wake, but waking is only another form of waiting with the lights turned on and the mouth still tasting of copper and ash. The moon is still there, its crack glistening like a wound that has never closed, never scarred, never learned anything except how to open again. The air around it smells of ozone. The pendulum begins to move.

When it is over I wake, but waking is only another form of waiting with the lights turned on and the mouth still tasting of copper and ash. The moon is still there, its crack glistening like a wound that has never closed, never scarred, never learned anything except how to open again. The air around it smells of ozone. The pendulum begins to move.