I've always felt this unexplainable, constant pain. Consequently, I've developed a fear of losing the hurting to which I'm so familiar- even as it eats away at me. Simultaneously, I fear its presence is perpetual. "Take Me Swiftly So" is an exploration of these feelings. Death finds me times I breathe, Consumes a surge of scrutiny of the lie, Take me swiftly so. Collapses the towering of emotions into a sea, Almost find myself grinning to the cry, Death finds me times I breathe. A sense of calm helps to see, All the striving gone awry, Take me swiftly so. Maybe a human flaw deceives me, Thinking why hearts desire to fly, Death finds me times I breathe. A sudden experience I can't flee, Another oasis appears and turns dry, Take me swiftly so. An anxious greed yet, lies a glee, To be hoping for a vacancy, Death finds me times I breathe, Take me swiftly so.

My writing is about the fear that we felt once in our lifetime or still have. It's a symbolic story. I write it in a way so that anyone can read and understand it, even children. Once, a beautiful, adorable little bird was in a golden cage. A young lady found her under the bush when she was a weak baby. So, the lady brought her home and kept her. That bird wasn’t injured, but that lady wanted to keep to herself as she knew that bird would be pretty once she grew. She fed that bird, gave everything, and did everything for her. The bird ate three times a day and slowly learned how to fly. When she learned how to fly, the lady owner was scared that the bird would leave. So one day, her owner bought a small cage and kept her in it. Little birdie learned that this world was rather beautiful and a fantastic place, and there were lots to know and learn about the world, lots of things to discover. She knew this world was also cruel and dangerous; different kinds of monsters were waiting to destroy her. The bird was slowly turning into a beautiful bird, but she didn’t want to stay in that small dirty cage. She wants to fly and wants to make friends. She wants to see the outside of this room that she has never seen. Day by day, she started to lose her patience and started getting frustrated. From inside the cell, through the window of her owner’s room, she saw other birds flying, singing, dancing, flying with their partners, and having fun, and not only that, but she also saw the sufferings of birds. Whenever she sees the birds suffering, she thinks it is better to stay in the cage; at least she is alive; what if she dies when she leaves the cell? She doesn’t want to think about it. She sits inside the cage thinking, dreaming about the freedom she wants, the life she wants for herself. The owner started to go crazy with the fear of losing the bird. She can’t stop thinking about how to prevent that bird from going away from her. She wants that bird to stay with her forever. After a while, she got the idea to buy a golden cage so the bird would get excited by seeing it and never leave. But one thing she forgot is that the bird doesn’t even know what a golden cage means or doesn’t even know its value. When she brought this big giant golden cage, that bird got so excited because she had never seen such a vast, beautiful cage as she couldn’t even imagine such a cage existed. It was such a beautiful and well-organized cage, just like picture-perfect. Everything about the cell is too perfect to be true, and she got lost in it and almost forgot about leaving this cage. Some days later, she realized that she got distracted by the beauty of that cage when she never really wanted to stay in it in the first place. She wanted to know about the happiness and sadness of life. She knew that there would be danger out there and lots of struggle too, but she wanted to face them even if it was painful or even if she had to struggle; she still wanted to face it. But she will never stay in that cage. She feared being unable to fly high as she’s been staying in that cage where she was not able to fly high. Somehow this fear started to eat her up, and she got tensed. She was worrying so much that she couldn’t eat anything and became quiet. When her owner calls out for her, she doesn’t move and doesn’t make any sounds. Now her owner started to worry about her. She thought her beloved bird might be sick and feared that her bird might die soon. She gets sad while thinking that she’s been alone almost her whole life, and now, when she has this adorable bird, will she die, making her alone again? She takes this bird as a part of her life. She thinks she will die if that bird dies. One day afternoon, little birdie wasn’t eating anything and was sitting as if she was almost half dead. Her owner got up to see if she was still breathing scarily; when she was just about to open the cage gate, that bird suddenly tried to escape it and escape. She started to fly as high as she could with her weak body. She was happy to see that she still could fly so high. Her fear of not being able to fly high was no more. Her owner got frightened and was trying to catch her but couldn’t, so she got angry. Birdie doesn’t understand why her owner is trying to catch her when she is flying. When she wasn’t flying too high, her owner suddenly caught her and held her tightly. It was hard for that bird to breathe for a moment, and when she tried to escape from her hand, her owner held her more tightly, leading her to get hurt. Then her owner again locks her in the cage and shackles her. It was too tight that it was hurting her. She made sounds and tried to move from that pain, but her owner didn’t even look at her. She didn’t understand why her owner got angry. She wasn’t going away from her owner. Her actions have hurt that poor bird. She wished for once her owner knew her feelings and thoughts or tried to understand her feelings. She feels that her fear is winning, making her miserable, frustrated, and devastated, and making her angrier. But sometime later, she understands her owner’s feeling too. But even if she feels sorry for her owner, she still doesn’t want to be in that cage without any doubt. She started to think about how she could get out of this cage and convince her owner or make up her owner’s mind to get her out of the cell. She even wants to find someone for her owner, so she doesn’t feel lonely, but doesn’t know how she will do it. She started to behave well, acting politely, and started to make sweet, soft sounds so that her owner would give her attention. She knows that if she does as her owner says, she could gain her trust again and maybe achieve what she wants. She fears that this pettiness gets her stuck here. She never wants to leave this place. Her owner started giving her food and taking care of her, giving her head pats as she behaved well. That little bird wasn’t a fool but wise. Whenever she sees birds outside the window, she makes noise so that her owner understands that she also wants to fly like those birds. Her owner noticed it but tried to ignore it for a few days. Suddenly one day, her owner opens the gate of the cell. That bird doesn’t realize what she should do. She doesn’t understand if today is the day she will be free from the cage or if her owner is only testing her. When she was trying to escape from that cage, she couldn’t as she was still shackled. She then understands that she can’t go far and there’s no way she can fly with it. Her owner was watching her but didn’t do anything. She became sad and was hurt by this, as it was all a test to see if she would escape it. She looked outside from the window sadly for a while, wondering when she would be able to see that beautiful sky. There were other birds that were chitchatting; some were singing and dancing and playing with their mates, and some were working on getting food or maybe trying to make a home for their family. It saddened her that nobody noticed her as they were too busy with themselves. She then entered her cage, which may be made of gold but a bed of thorns. Because of these thorns, it’s not livable, even if it’s made with gold or even if there’s everything that should be in a bird’s cage. By living in this cage, she was continuously getting hurt, which was more painful than those thorns were giving. Her anger for her owner grew slowly, and she started to hate her. She doesn’t want to hate her and feels guilty for hating her owner, who one day saved her life and gave her everything that might not be available outside. If her owner didn’t bring her home that day, she might have died long ago, or something bad could happen. She will always be thankful to her owner for doing anything without even asking for it. She understands that staying in a cage and dying is pretty much the same pointless thing, and it’s not called living if she can’t go outside and live a life like the other birds. She wants to find the meaning of life. Even if she had to die, she would like to die outside for something meaningful, but not in the cage. She doesn’t eat when her owner gives her food; she makes noises all the time and tries to break the cell with her beak, and by doing this, she even hurts herself. Some days later, her owner got annoyed and opened the gate and finally freed her from the shackle this time. The little birdie was so happy that it flew happily above her owner’s head, making sweet sounds. By doing so, her owner’s heart then melted, and she was also happy to see her bird happy. That day her owner realized that this bird was not a caged bird but a bird that we saw outside and admired its beauty, and not only that, no bird should be in a cage. She thought maybe her bird also wanted to live her life, just like any other bird wants. Then suddenly, she gets hit by her fear of living alone but also understands that this bird was never really hers, and she was living alone before this bird came into her life. This bird suddenly came and made her life worth living. She realized that she had done terrible things to her beloved bird, which is why she may never return to her. She felt guilty for doing all this, and then she opened her window so that her little birdie could fly away. That bird was watching what her owner was doing and saw that her owner had opened the window, but little did she understand that today was the day she would be free. She thought her owner would never free her but seeing it happening- she’s overwhelmed with joy. She’s been waiting for this day. She had been planning for her freedom for a long time, and now, when it was finally happening, she didn’t understand what she should do now. She flies to her owner and sits on her head. Her owner then took her in her hands and realized how pretty the bird was. Her eyes were in tears for what sin she did, and now she released her bird through the window. Her beloved bird was flying under the blue sky, looking absolutely stunning. Her owner was crying happily, and seeing this beautiful scene, her tears stopped, and her heart flowed with love. That bird flies away along with other birds, but she doesn’t get mixed with them. Because of her unique beauty, she stands out from everyone else. A few years later, one morning, there was a sound of tweeting coming through the window. She woke up hearing the noise. Half asleep, she moved the curtains, and when she opened the window, it was her beloved bird. She thought her bird would never visit her, but she did. She was so pleased to see her beloved bird. It’s her, that little bird that’s become pretty beautiful.

In Part 1 of "Going Nowhere," I focused on painting three distinct nonsensical staircases. Inspired by Escher's stairs.

Let's build a grave, I said. She nodded and started straight ahead. We build together a camaraderie, stacked it up with giggles and tears, packed it up with memories and clouds. There we go, the coffin is ready. The grave cannot be called so until we leave, she said. I agreed because that's how friendships work. Neither of us agreed on the haunting, though, the heavy burden of things left unsaid and the innocence of undeclared love hanging right above our heads. The grave is complete. Time conspires with memory and confuses me. Nostalgia hit me in raindrops, and suddenly I'm stuck at a forever afternoon class with her. Giggling as we secretly eat snacks underneath our benches. This is the grave of our love, it's not romance- and that doesn't make it any less warm. Some friends don't stay long in your life but are neatly stored away in your brain, feeding your dreams. Letting your heart go through a dull pain that isn't painful at all. Yet, carries a heaviness that can never be forgotten.

The focus of this piece is on the ability and the decision to fight back- to let go of any bad or upsetting memory that makes you uncomfortable- something that hasn't allowed you to be as open and free as you can all your life. My heart aches every time I think of you, as crumpled as a rickle of soft wool, merely hanging by a thread Just as one lifeless soul on our precious earth, I stand with trembling legs and dejected eyes And a face as warm and pale as the remembrance of dry rays of sunshine, quiet like a burning candle with wax dripping down like tears From those dreamy yet clueless eyes I light a fire in my once hopeless soul, and let the sparks run through my fearless veins For I have decided to rise from the ashes of the fire that once burned bright I stand strong with valor in my heart and mind Vulnerability as my strength unguarded by my thoughts For I have decided to surrender to the uncharted And now, I declare freedom to my restless musings As I finally close my eyes to dream of the infinite once again For I have decided to be unbridled

This short story is a satirical fiction, which is loosely based on actual events and the controversial 2015 U.S. Supreme Court case Obergefell v. Hodges. It seeks in no way to be disrespectful towards Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia— who openly opposed same-sex marriage—his family, or those who share his beliefs. Antonin Scalia frowned, his chin melting into his neck. He looked distastefully in the mirror. His eyes regarded the way his suit slumped over his shoulders and hung loose around the arms with vexation. The weight of Obergefell V Hodges, his rotund belly, self-hatred, arrogance, and internalized homophobia was crippling. Antonin grasped a fist full of greasy hair–or what was left of it–with his paunchy fingers. Then, he turned to the only person he revered enough to consult: himself. “Alright, Supreme Justice. You’ve hidden it all your life. You are a virtuous man. Good people depend on you as the voice of reason. Personal sentiments lay below the law.” He gave himself a menacing look as if to demand his own obedience. The Justice didn’t comply. “But what will Jeffrey think of me?” he fretted. “A secret affair is one thing. It would be unusual not to have one as a political figure. In that respect, I’m just upholding tradition. But I, his boyfriend, voting against same-sex marriage? He’d never forgive me! I’ll be stuck with Maureen for all dam eternity,” he wailed. Antonin laced his hands rigidly behind his back and paced across the marble bathroom floor, deeply contemplating his own words. “What’s so wrong with Maureen? You’ve had nine kids with her, it can’t be all that bad.” “Ah, to hell with Maureen! I can close my eyes, can’t I? The problem is that I’m too far deep. I’m the upholder of good ol’ conservative values–I’m a faithful Christian! And God has seen it all, everything I’ve done with Jeffrey, Donald Trump…the men whose names I never cared to ask…” he hung his head shamefully. “This is His punishment. Making me decide between sacrificing sinful, sweet, passionate, RAGING love or dismantling my public image, reputation… I’d lose my family! My life! My everything!” He let out a distraught sigh. “Well,” Antonin reasoned, focus fixed on his hairy toes, “there’s always a chance that they’ll think you were brainwashed by the Russians if you choose to rule in favor.” He halted abruptly and turned back to face himself in the mirror, struck by his own ludicrously. “The Russians,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “That’s my best hope, pfff, putting the blame on Putin? I really am doomed–” A hesitant knock came at the door. “Antonin?” a woman’s voice interrupted. He grunted. “Honey, are you almost ready? You have an appointment at the Marble Palace,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Goddamit, Maureen!” Antonin bellowed, “They ain’t starting jack shit without me there. Let me alone.” Maureen let out a deflated but expecting sigh. He waited stubbornly until her footsteps were out of earshot before checking his watch. “Christ, I have 20 minutes.” Sheer panic nearly swept Antonin off his feet. His chubby cheeks flushed with hot blood, and sweat beaded along his wiry brows. He felt his heart slam so fast against his ribs that he began calculating the likelihood of an aneurysm and whether or not it would be a bad thing. The Justice collapsed dramatically against the wall, letting himself slide down until he reached the floor with a thud. He sat limply, legs sprawled like a rag doll. “Jesus, what do I do?” Antonin rubbed his forehead with a clammy palm. “I don’t want to lose Jeffrey. I’m sorry for saying that, you know, you hate us homosexuals, Jesus. Every sensible being knows that’s hogwash. Even the priests! I just thought that was what Righties wanted to hear. Back in the day, if I were openly with Jeffrey, I’d get burned at the stake–or worse, exposed!” Antonin shimmied to straighten his spine. He chucked hoarsely, “We have a nondisclosure agreement, right? You’re not going to write “Antonin Scalia” is gay in the sky? Jesus, I know I’m a terrible person, but please don’t return to the mortal realm just to out me for spite. I let my political ambitions get the best of me. We earthly beings are vulnerable to corruption and slaves to our desires, pursued or not.” There was a pause. Antonin tilted his face towards the ceiling, radiating dim synthetic fluorescence, and closed his sunken eyes. Tears began to slip from the edges. They trickled down, and for the first time, Antonin felt as though he was defeated. He found the swell of emotion nauseating. The lamenting Justice began to cackle deliriously as he wept. He wheezed violently in the same fashion as a winded purebred pug. “Do you see what I’ve become?” he sputtered. “I’m a closeted homosexual senior citizen who headlines every newspaper as the biggest asshole in the States.” He lifted a quivering arm and used his sleeve to brush away the foul liquid humanity that had escaped. Antonin squinted up and addressed the porcelain sink like a trusted friend. “I’m teetering on the edge of sanity,” he confided. “If I were to suddenly change my extremist stance, the press would say I’m off my rocker, short-circuited, knocked a screw loose! I’d be institutionalized– deemed a madman even!” “Let’s face it,” Antonin groaned, “it’s too late to make peace with the general public. I’ll never be the good guy. I’ve dug my grave too deep.” He patted his porky abdomen in dismay. Antonin was struck by a sudden urge, which he had promised himself he would suppress the days leading up to the trial. But alas, he gave in. Shifting his weight on his right hip—a taxing venture— he wrestled his secret trap phone free from his pant pocket. The device was used for secret communication with Jeffrey, and sometimes when he wanted to feel young again, Grindr. He held the device in his palm, choking on hesitation. Antonin pulled out his 80’s relic, brownish-gold aviator spectacles from his chest pocket. Was it a coincidence that Jeffrey Dahmer wore the same ones? Maybe. Fastening the glasses over his nose, he meticulously entered his password, “Antonin Scalia is Gay.” Antonin thought this quite clever. He thought himself a smooth operator. The man took a deep breath, inflating the entirety of his gut. A pant button snapped off. “Rats,” he hissed. Antonin checked his watch wearily. Ten minutes left. With a sudden onset of urgency, he dialed Jeffrey’s number. He furiously chewed the innards of his cheek, small chunks of bloody flesh coming loose. But the Justice was immune to the pain, it could be bubble gum for all he cared. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and his arteries clogged to the point of no return. A voice answered on the other line. “Hello, my love,” Jeffrey answered, “aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?” Antonin immediately calmed at the sound of his lover speaking. “Oh, Jeffrey. I had to call you.” He tried to keep his composure but blurted out, “I need to know, will you leave me if I vote against same-sex marriage?” The silence that ensued was deafening. Then came an amused laugh on the other line. “Anty,” Jeffrey started, “you have publicly compared homosexuality to murder and bestiality. Why in the hell do you think I’d be bothered by this? I know who you are, and I love you.” “But–” “Shhh,” Jeffrey interrupted, “you know the motto. Don’t bring politics to the bedroom, don’t bring the bedroom into politics.” Antonin couldn’t suppress a mischievous smirk. He loved the man. So. Damn. Much. “You sure have a way with words, Jeff.” He let an atrocious “hehe” slip from his bloody mouth. Yes, like the Michael Jackson memes. “You should be on the Supreme Court–always so rational, intelligent….” “Well, Mr. SUP-RE-ME JUS-TICE deserves the best,” Jeffrey teased, exaggerating each syllable. “Yea, yea, Jeff, enough with your mockery,” he scolded. But Antonin was smiling. He collected himself and rose from the floor painfully slow. “Well, all in favor of voting against same-sex marriage?” “All in favor,” Jeffrey laughed. “Well, it’ll be legalized anyway,” he disclosed. “Kennedy is on board, so I’ve heard. That makes majority…” he trailed off, lost in thought. “That should take some pressure off,” Jeffrey offered. “Yea,” Antonin agreed, his tone faltering. “Just those damn lucky kids are going to be living the dream that we never could.” And with that, Supreme Court Justice Salia draped himself with the prestigious robe, concealing his blubber and once again veiling his lifelong secret. Then, he proceeded to make some of the most outlandish, degrading, offensive homophobic statements in modern history. A year later, Antonin was found dead at the Cibolo Creek Ranch Resort in Texas. Legend has it that he was on a romantic retreat with his dear Jeffrey. It is believed that the men’s lust got out of hand, leading the Supreme Justice to die tragically of a heart attack–or excitement. But we may never know.

I was inspired by the story of Echo and Narcissus in Ovid's Metamorphoses. I tried to capture Echo's feelings of anxiety and hesitation when faced with the love of her life, although those feelings couldn't suppress her intense love and desire for his company.

TW: Sexual Violence, Mental Health Disorders It tackles a very different angle than I usually write: psychological horror or thriller. This piece is a tragic drama; it's written from a child's perspective, and it sheds significant light on the fact that Foster care systems are, as the story describes, "Bi-po-lar" in the sense that they might provide good homes and care for some kids, but project extremely traumatizing experiences to other ones. I've never won a staring contest before. Yet, somehow, today, I'm weirdly making it happen by staring at a horrifying end, also known as Miss Foster's eyes; they are so vast it's a challenge. But she has one that is blue and one that is brown. It makes it easier to alternate between the two. Miss Foster is our caregiver, whom I thought is a polar bear. When I told her that once before, she smacked me on the back of my head and said that wearing funny socks and having hair a different color every day was not bi-po-lar. I heard her cry during our nap time that day. Is that why she called me here? She impatiently taps her foot three times and asks, "Do you know why you're here, Amgad?" I’m not sure. I haven’t snuck out any of the expensively-wrapped candies from her desk drawer past bedtime with Georgie- at least not for a while now. She sighs, and I feel its heaviness cloud over my seat. I shake my head cautiously, so it doesn’t start raining and thundering. "Amgad, why do you keep running away?" I would instead tell her about the candies myself than answer this question. I lose at the staring game when I look away, suddenly developing a passion for exploring her office, the one I've been to millions of times. Has that stain on the carpet always been there? That’s a lovely vase on miss’s desk. Does she remember to water the flowers? Isn’t that the candies drawer? More impatient foot tapping. I look at miss again. Her severe eyes are now scary. "You know I'm doing my best trying to help you, kids. Find you a home." That word, the H-word Georgie and I swore never to use, hurts my ears. "Do you not want a home?" She softens her tone a bit, reasoning that's what made me wince. I look down at my feet. Somehow the weight of having to answer her question makes me forget the ache from wearing the ragged sneakers I'd outgrown long ago. I notice the blacks I shaded to hide the original pink stripes are fading. I have to remember to line them with the marker again. Georgie reminded me to do that. I sniff and wipe my eyes. I don’t want to cry; Georgie used to say it made my snot fly everywhere, making us laugh. This makes me cry even more, and now my snot is flying everywhere. Miss hands me a tissue. "I know you're scared. But I can't help you if you don't tell me what you're afraid of." Miss treats us like nine-year-olds, so we're not old enough to be spoken to as grown-ups, but old enough to be spoken to as..well, maybe ten-year-olds? Ten and a half. Either way, it makes us feel special. Safe. That's why I think, for the briefest moment, that I should tell her. I should tell her that the first time I ran away was the first time I learned the word: Abuse. When the Hairy man in the big house with the fancy wooden door and the porcelain elf by the porch wouldn't let me have dinner unless I did things. Horrible, horrible things. Things I couldn’t even tell Georgie about when he came to visit. But I would do them because I was hungry, and food tasted like cotton if I snuck it into my bear's back zipper. If I should tell her that, about the third time, the pretty lady would come and wake me up every night and tell me she wanted to take me to her special place where we would sing, float with fish, and listen to the world go quiet. But then her kind husband would come in, gently stroke her hair, whisper something in her ear, and she would nod and leave me alone. I learned her tell-tale was when I heard her shout and cry and shout and cry. An object would shatter, then I knew she would find me next. So I would sleep under the bed with my bear hiding my face. Georgie said once, in hide and seek, that if you can’t see people, they can’t see you. He was so wise. I should tell her that the seventh time was to visit him because he’d stopped coming. But I couldn't find him anywhere. When I asked, I was given his glasses, broken and sad, and pointed to look at the ceiling spot where an old chandelier used to hang. I held my bear tight that night, so tight one of his button eyes popped, praying Georgie would be in the pretty lady's special place. I apologized to my bear. I apologized to Georgie. And I cried to sleep. I should tell her that 15 is a lucky number. It's how many years most kids like me spend before finally finding, forgive me, Georgie, a home. But I shouldn't tell her that I won't wait that long because I died seven deaths. I died when Georgie died. And I don't even have anywhere to be buried. I look at Miss’s wide eyes, beautiful and not scary. Worried and not frightened. And I should tell her something Miss Foster will find reassuringly- fitting for Amgad's ten-and-a-half-year-old brain to say. I will tell her, "I have my bear, Miss. I am not afraid. Home is the likes of my bear."

The moment went space & time were derived, from an artist's perspective.

i don’t have to live half a century to have an existential crisis. i can have one now. i do have one now. eighteen means i’m an adult, responsible for my actions. no more juvie if i commit a crime. no more “she’s just a kid.” i’m an adult now, and i have to buy my groceries, or maybe not yet since I still live with my parents. eighteen means i’m two years away from no longer being a teenager. it’s all i’ve ever known. okay, that’s an exaggeration. it’s all i’ve known, at least for the last five years, which feels like all my life, to be honest. what do i do now? i have to own up to every tantrum and lash out and unnecessary fight that i can’t help but pick with my brother. i guess i already do that, but i hate that i’m required. eighteen means more responsibility (whatever that means). eighteen means i have more audacity. to do what? i’m not sure yet. maybe the audacity to be honest. to be my real self that i play hide and seek with. even though i’m a little too old to be playing games. what’s the purpose of being eighteen? what will you bring to the table, eighteen? because all i feel right now is stress. and a bit of pressure. and a little pissed off. i didn’t want to grow up, but time doesn’t care. it moves linearly but i come in waves. and i didn’t realize i was drowning until the water hit above my head. but maybe i’ll grow taller, though i doubt i’ll have a second growth spurt. eighteen means i have a say. a say in what i want to eat, even if my tastebuds are still the same as seventeen. i haven’t changed that much. i have a say in how to do my hair, but i already dyed it twice before, and i’m tired of two-toned hair, so i don’t think i’ll be going to the salon anytime soon. i also have a say in when to come home, but i’m scared of the dark and busy streets at night, so really i’ll be home by nine, at the latest ten, but most likely, i won’t be outside at all because i’m still just a kid at heart and it’s scary being outside alone. maybe having a say is just something people say when in reality, the reins are handed from mom and dad to me and back to them because i don’t want to be in charge of myself. i still want a curfew so that i can break it and tell mom and dad i’m eighteen and i have a say. maybe eighteen means eighteen. it’s just an age. and i’m just me.

Inspired by Soundgarden