Hard to be poetic with fear.

So many channels of indiscretion

end up being the threshold.

Living with depression seems

so callous in respect to norms.

Get up, get outside, read a book,

play with your dog, clean house,

go work out, call a friend;

fall into a frenzy of despair.

Can’t help think the latter

seems the most abt 

endgame. 

What about silence?