in april of twenty-twenty-six my roommate told me not to abandon rap music. he alleged that multiple human beings that surrounded our own fleshbags had, apropos of nothing, abandoned it. he was not aware that i can't abandon something i had never adopted. he was not aware that rap music was a daydream i fell into. i like rap music. i abandoned rap music.

in september of twenty-twenty-two a woman face-suckingly told me that i should've sucked her face earlier. that i had been awkward in not having done so years before. implying that i had abandoned the life that we could've had many moons ago. she pulled my hand towards her breast.

"here."

"oh... ok."

"you taste good."

"oh... you do too."

i abandoned her. the man whose face she would begin sucking post-september-twenty-twenty-two now makes my coffee. i am worse off for this; he deserves better. she did as well. i probably don't.

"how do you want to pay for this?"

"credit."

in june of twenty-twenty-four, i was in marrakech. i had never been to an arab country before. people from my high school told me to duck so the "terrorist" snipers couldn't see me. we had students regularly bring guns to school. one of these kids recounted his morning adventures to me.

"so i was drivin' to school."

"uh huh."

"and i seen this coyote (cah-yo-t) in the ditch."

"did you shoot it?"

"nah... nah i didn't"

"oh... ok."

"so i swerved into the ditch and ran the little fucker over."

"did it die?"

"oh yep, i gottem'."

"woah... that's crazy."

"nah."

i had left my fake-job in dublin to see an arab country. i had left iowa city to work a fake job in dublin. i had left walker to go to school in iowa city. i wanted to see the "jardin majorelle", i wanted to walk around in a place that bodily felt different than walker. the ticket was more expensive than my hostel. the medina was wild, it was hot, it smelled thirty-five different ways in the first thirty-four footsteps you took into from the main roads. it was chaotic, it was wonderful. i had air and sweet-sour orange juice resin mixed on my tongue beef-jerky like. shopkeepers' squeals ricocheted between the thousand-year-old walls. i paid too much for a wooden camel for my mom. i paid the right amount for a wooden camel for my girlfriend. i do not own my own wooden camel. i began down the street towards the jardin, escaping the womb of the medina into the afterbirth sprawl of unregulated traffic flow and dust. minimalist posters lined the jardin's walls. they reminded me of the block prints we did in art class in high school when i lived in walker.

the kid who had run over the coyote hadn't taken an art class since before getting his driver's license.

i pulled out my iphone, i showed the guard my pee-dee-ef of my student ticket to the jardin. he gave me a once-over.

"sir. wait over there."

"oh... ok."

i strolled down the street, i got under a tree. the wind shaved the moisture from my skin. the sun made good on its promise to produce more sweat. i walked up to the guard.

"am i good to go in?"

"yes... um one thing, though."

"what?"

"you're bag sir. not allowed."

"oh... ok. on the website it said backpacks were allowed in the main garden."

"sir. not allowed."

"oh... my medicine is in the bag. i can't afford to lose my anti-biotics. is there any way would i be able to bring it in?"

"sir... you cannot."

"i'm not giving you my bag."

he motioned to his coworker inside a little hut adjacent to the entrance. he explained to me it was policy but that they had cameras in the bag room. he let me bring in my antibiotics and passport but took the bag. i left my backpack with him. it wreaked anyways. my body wafted through the jardin. the violet-blue pierced my eyes through the veil of sandy-browns and greens like needles. the silence was pouncing into my ears, the contrasting colors and delicious geometry pleased me. i could've spent the rest of my life in those walls. i should've laid down and never gotten up. i should've let the sun bake me into the sand until waves flooded the world yet again. i should've been dragged out to sea grain-by-grain until i mixed into the sediment that my ancestors, all of your ancestors, and all of their ancestors were deposited in.

"sir. you can't go back. only forwards."

"oh... um... sorry."

"that way. sir."

"will do. thank you."

i abandoned that place.

i whipped through airports, through classes, through jobs, through people who cared, through people who didn't, through versions of my self. i keep falling and falling. once or twice a year a branch or cliff breaches my path and for a brief moment impedes the fall. for a brief moment i'm still. i'm still falling. i pray that i never stop falling. i hope you fall too.