There’s not much here.
You may leave.
An acid bath removes layers of the epidermis, revealing pink skin, new and fragile. You become complacent and it reveals bone. Blood and tissue surround you as your organs die, eaten, and consumed.
The trick, if it is your ultimate goal to survive and thrive, is to exit the tub, dry off carefully, and moisturize your fresh shell. This gives you perspective and resolves you of past sins and cancerous doubts. You’ve baptized yourself and have regained the freedom of choice.
Mental parasites attach themselves to your cerebral cortex. Bacteria infects your heart, corrupting your blood, and atrophying your muscles. These villains don’t care about state lines. They travel with you. You must treat them when you arrive or risk creating a new cage, but a cage nonetheless.
Kiss your spouse. Take your pills.
Stain your fingers with ink and strain your eyes. A pen, a keyboard, a monitor; these are traffic signs for your neural pathways.
The air is clean here. There is love and support here. It’s a fresh start. You have been gifted with the opportunity to find joy in the rebuilding process. Things are going to get done, and you’re going to wake up easier.
Usher in the era of you.