Everyday a blank canvas, anywhere to go, a different person yet all the same, hoping to start with anything but a blank 280 characters the next day, hating the days you exceeded expectations and lost sight of what progress was, people don't appreciate the progress I made. Am I any different. Refusing to acknowledge anything but my best, there is no meaning in what I am, only in what i create. anger, contempt, regret, all stirring up, outbursts towards those who made me. recursive cycles, cyclical misanthropy, i have no sense of self, the self-shelter is at capacity, so is the pity shelter, and i'm not even good at anything. especially not art.