Misery has a halting melody, a rubbery and filthy chord clamoring like chlamydia through throngs of joylessness. I’ve brought my blue sequin shoes to dance, and truly the coagulated chorus matches my hot and discombobulated body perfectly, but I feel self-conscious as my nipples perk up in the tearful rain. Across a bridge of bone, holographic islands dreaming in opalescent bays. I want to travel somewhere original and thrilling, but I find myself lost like the balloon I had for a moment as a child, pink, precious, poppable.