At this angle the moon seems more a measure than a mark. For how distant everything is. Wax fingers perpetuate the flood of not forgetting where I have been. Desire like dominoes. One tumbling down causing all the others to fall. It was never fate. Just lonely people committed to their prisons.
The fork in the story comes not from the author. The characters are to blame. Interrupted epiphanies turn down the collars on heavy beds. The fluorescent lights make all the white sheets blue. So I can see the empty where there is everything.
The hours measuring themselves in years. Futures. A paradox of conditions not met. I'm here. And there. I'm everywhere I've ever been. Stealing paths not taken.
Drawing ears on deaf pillows.
Saturday
2/23/2008 01:13:00 AM
The last three of your writings are very interesting even though you have been singing the same song since the begining
thanx.
same song. maybe. there's a few in my repertoire. sex. love. lack of it. depression. addiction.
they do tend to swirl together into a muddy hangover of sorts.
i guess they're all the same really. different doses of the same stupid drug.
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