Thursday 4/05/2007 12:18:00 AM

There really isn't anything attractive about life. The carpet in four hour yawns. The weight of cold sores on rotten mattresses. The cold autopsy in each dream. Every death is a suicide if you examine it closely.

The wheeze of the walls as they try to breathe. A fairy tale for the senses. The shudder of the bed in stirs of skin. In heavy gulps like bodies do when presented with the connundrum of choice. The kind of nightmares that make me want to sleep. The doorbells in the morning that seem to know when to ring.

The peep hole in every heart. Not really showing, but trying to warn us. About the strangers we think we recognize.

In the leak of the chime like sandpaper against. In the swing of the door automonimous. Either by physics or by happenstance. I'm drawn into the opening.

More a stranger to myself than any of them.

Listening for the invitation never sent.

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