Reading into the Daily Paper.

The racing is bleeding wrong. I'm most surely a fuck up, mewling about absence of heart and hope with a touch of humanity. The pacing's an impeding song. I'm frustrated and the sun goes down on another tirelessly adult and lonely night of sheets drawn cold. The sun stalks the tears away from my eyes, slapping my dry face with shine. I realize I'm barking up the wrong tree. I see she has her edges gilded with heartbreak. The safety nets are booby traps and the agents of the law beckon, drinking chartruese as they fall through the gaps. Vacancies. Who am I to listen to when I sense that my only tryst is one of shot up reason? I saw you once: the image of a piece of my heart falling into your palm refracted through tequila and whiskey. Each tin flask fills and empties with the sunrise running, bloodied by the sunset. Thus the truth: I see the malice of my heart writhing from blow after self-wrought, melodramatic blow. To say I built this mansion just to tear it down is an understatement. Understand rent and pay it. The dues are what come second. I feel the breeze of a personality history and it tickles painfully. Pins and needles.

My hairs are pointing at one another, deciding which of them will go gray next. The crowd is bristling aniticipation. Confetti twisting in the air; each piece aspin within a thin little orbit each their own. We are dancing this dance quietly yet the din is overwhelming.

Those that kinder warmth are all mixed up with those that want to: like blood. We draw from one another randomly. Strawberries and tar paper and the letting go of affections. We're sick to death of staring out at the pall of another inebriated set of circumstances. We are getting the sense that time is dwindling. We send messages in the dark while a quick shock dissolves under soil erosion disasters. There you are waving. Here I am debating. I'm just here and the one who's there gets no closer with the circling. I turn the hour glass. The birds swarm like flies. The grains of sand let me know of the slipping away. And there you are, my possibility: all beautiful amber avoidance. I'm here with your loss dropping off and I empty my pockets, shining white. These sheets drape about my body like a white flag of surrender.