Dehydration

Chapped delusional lips manage to squeak in questioning of how one could turn art into a lifestyle but one cannot claim their lifestyle is art. Some movements mean more than the average room-cruiser aimlessly stirring the current of what used to be a still space, each breath fully distinct from the next and still every notion goes discredited. How does one know when they're in the right place in the wrong time? Or the wrong place at a time-telling challenge intended to cleanse you and you're ingesting it wrong. Shameful sloth.