Monday 12/17/2007 02:15:00 AM

I can see the future sometimes in the slivers of light that escape through the window. I can hear it in the wind as it fights the buildings for dominance. Specious gods looking for a microphone. Or any way to make us listen.

People have all the gods they need. real or not. People have a monopoly on suicide. Or rather needing a reason not to die and why it'll be alright when they do.

Gathering her bed sores into neat little piles she considered the future of the blood she had spilled. What is skin without friction? Just a heavy sheath for broken bones. What is blood without blisters? Just a fancy map to places we'll never see again. What is sex except the illusion of heaven. A shorter path to gods we've never believed in, but still wish were real.

A circus of frailties that try, but can't make us whole.

It's like trying to reason with the wind. It doesn't care what you want.

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