Well Done. Burnt.

Use a crayon to edit me out. For my celestial insides are orbitting too fast. They should not be published. My flap waves in the wind whilst the careening shipwreck of a life continues to confound. It's a white flag for a feeling. It says I give up. These tiny bodies are squishy and give way easy to the touch but to no avail. They still scare me when I feel them move around and making plans. I truly am sorry for what I said but I apologize as the dramatic drips off me like pinstripes. The tommy gun kicks back in a mist of pain and pink and those figures in the distance fall indinstinct amongst the tent sites for the wicked and abandoned. I can't seem to squint hard enough to make them out; the daily inconsistencies are the ever strengthening force of the blurred life. Each day keeps me wondering how to live. I know that it is a step by step process, this binding of the hands to get work done. Yea I know that it's continuous and winding. But there must be a chart somewhere that predicts the eliptical path each piece of myself will take. It can't just be random can it? Or are these tenuous journeys of essences just random flashes in the night sky? Is the sky falling just to reveal yet another endless dark expanse just behind the previous one? The curtain could be burning down but the audience just applauds enthusiastically as the flames reach the first aisle. I'm inside a building eating itself up and I can't help but cheer. I love it.