Saturday 8/04/2007 12:37:00 AM

He grows sad for me when too much time has passed and no one's answered my riddles. There is no answer. Only listening.

Warring with his words to chisel out a fitting eulogy. To the girl who dies on his doorstep night after night. Blind words oblivious to the glass between art and life. Or else refusing to see.

What's to say. That I haven't already. There's the bottle in my fist. A boxing glove's worth of epiphanies spilling from my broken smile. Measured in the time it takes to snuff out that last cigarette.

To some it's just madness. Some grave spectacle to entertain. To others it's an art. Inverting each moment until all thoughts lay inside out. The bickering wisdoms of pillows at their prom. In love with every bed that isn't already occupied.

To me it's just life. Dying. Word for word. Indulging the whims of the ghosts that make it worthwhile.

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