Ramshackle days. You’re on a train, in a car, riding a bike, a bus, a plane, anything, and something jostles and makes a noise that you associate with cheap plastic and dead toys. The train car sways violently, the plane rocks and rolls, your car’s front end gives a delirious wobble and–

And everything’s alright.

All. Right.

Systems go. The net held. 

But.

Ramshackle days.

A dangerous phrase that ricochets around your mind, pinging off stress points like a murderous pinball, tripping the volatile mix of Anxiety-Depression-Terror-Humor that you keep in a large, seething vat deep in your brain, mixing and stirring with each new terrible dawn. 

It froths. Leaps out of the cauldron and slathers your interior, a magma of your own creation and now your car, your train your plane your bike your life feels like its careening and its not, its really really not, but

It feels ramshackle.

Feels flimsy. The air, greasy and cheap. The sky looks painted, as if a bored 8 year old threw some blue and grey at it. The road is paper. Your bones the same aluminum as the empty can in your cupholder. The plane is definitely balsa wood and god, don’t even ask about the train tracks.

Straws.

It’s made of plastic straws.

You and everyone are leaning on structures of plastic and lies. Institutions of flimsy metals and rusting beams. 

Ramshackle days. Ramshackle days.

Band aids on gunshot wounds. Aspirin for tumors. Quick fixes for the horrors of you and the terror of others.

So

Ramshackle.