Monday 5/22/2006 12:17:00 AM

Follow the trickle of sweat as it dances down the bottle's shin. The promiscuous love that abuse affords us. Especially when there are no other options.

Of everything as a child I could've been, this still seems the most appropriate.

Every avenue closed. Ever fork bent back. No need to see the colors to know that they're forgotten. Were never really there.

Just shadows on the verge of combustion. As hope continued to connect speakers to amplifiers long dead.

So many sounds. So many songs to be discovered in the shatter of failing voices.

When we wake up and are suddenly different. We must know we were not changed by them. Only guided.

When the skin finally finds its place upon these bones again. I must remember where I left the zipper. And what fingerprints it has.

I get better only as this worsens.

As frail incumbents struggle to retain the choices made for them.


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