Wednesday 4/16/2008 01:14:00 AM

Puppets and coffeee. Life is a sedative. A terminal illness. Strings. Skin in knots. Dances that much faster. Condoms everywhere convince us the disease is ours to manage. There is no pinnochio without wooden limbs. Nor without the whisper of little boy.

I could be real. Pry the hard gum from underneath their chairs. Little wads of truth condemed to a purgatory made by men. I could be judged if I had to. By any one of your gods. No worries. THey don't exist.

There's simply no excuse for thinking yourself or any one of us is so important. I can be saved, Just as easily as anyone drowning.

That I know how to swim is irrelevant.

Given that gods have no answeing service. Nor means to satsify the customers they've failed.

I am god. As much as anyone is. In control of a future dying in our hands.

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