Sunday 4/08/2007 11:27:00 PM

If software could wonder. Be curious. It probably would be now. About the jests of malaise that leak from my fingers. In a chlorine swimming pool of depression who's farce is only exceeded by its logic. I was too old for this back when I was nineteen and clumsily tried to slit my wrists sober.

On that walk home I wondered who would see the room next. The bathtub dotted with my incompetance. My most wholesome of failures drying like a Jackson Pollock on the rose colored porcelain. On my way back through those much too safe streets I wondered how long I could wear long sleeves without arousing suspicion. Or at the very least being called on it. Turned out right up to this day no one ever asked. Why I tried. Why I let myself fail again.

You can paint the black windows white and tell yourself you can see the sun. But you'll still be cold. And outside it'll still be night.

Those veins that look so near are protected by bone and tendon. Those veins that hiss your only truth in hot neon. The closer they seem the further away they are.

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