How young was I then? The insipid traffic of youth conveying itself through crowded intersections in bedtime stories stolen from hungry wolves and dead pigs.
You can only be mortal. Can only forgive yourself if you're certain no one else will. Still I can dismiss these heavens for something real.
Dog shit on the carpet. Bills to pay and lies to utter. Open zippers at the back of my neck waiting for someone to pull on them.
As if we can choose who we are. Screw the umbrella. Let it rain on me.
Thursday
2/14/2008 01:00:00 AM
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