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She drove me to madness, you know? The type of jerk who would describe water as “melted ice” just to hear her own voice that much longer…



Old enough to say, “fuck it.”



"Everything she says warrants a thought. It’s quite possible I have no idea what she means most of the time, but it doesn’t stop me from going crazy thinking about her talking her nonsense at me. And that’s what I’m falling in love with. Not her devastating face. Not her punk rock walk. Her fucking voice, and the yarns her little words spin in my brain."



He stands on a ledge looking up at the sky to find a break in the clouds. She bear-hugs him from behind and asks to guide his fall. “Just kiss me, and I’ll survive.”



…take a look at the depression epidemic. The depressive is that way because of a shared energy - a mirror, if you will - that needs, desperately, to correlate with the wavelength of its counterpart who is one out of millions in an overpopulated world who happen to be born, unloved, into filth, and forced into slavery by businessmen halfway across the world. It is their plight, their burden, their cosmic penance for an interconnectedness of all things in the physical universe. And so we label them “depressed” when, in actuality, they are braces keeping the whole thing up for the rest of us to go on enjoying our vegan lifestyles, and our couples bowling leagues, and our seven-day ski passes. Either that, or it’s something in the water…



golden slumbers.

the necessity of sleep keeps me awake. it’s a paradox i can escape only in death or delirium, maybe, but that’s a theory I lack the courage to investigate firsthand at this juncture. searching for meaning or reason in the “why’s”and “how’s” of things exhausts me and leads me to believe the sad truth that we’ve overstepped in our always growing knowledge of ourselves: sleep is an off switch that axes the learned self, but not the hungry soul. it brings me back to the memories i’ve seen in dreams. memories of me feeding the wolves to keep them from feeding on me. memories of a hunt, a shot, and a sprint that meant the difference between life and death. memories of her face and the way her hair felt ticklish on my chest, and how her lips felt hot on my stomach. but the paradoxes persist because the memories wake me up breathless and heaving adrenaline from finger nails to tip toes every time, further proof that the dreams provide more life than i’ve ever known. if i chose to live the dreams as my waking reality would i be happier? would i get locked up? and if i was locked up, could i dream even more?


I saw myself in you - laid over in Madrid for four hours - studying your design, your topography. It wasn’t until off the plane that I would come to know your brunette soul. So many walks taken to explore your paths; your willingness to accept me into your new-to-me antiquity. Small and beautiful, we danced with each other for weeks. Then one night, on the top floor, our philosophies came together like bohemian magnets made of Pilsner and goulash. You wanted to taste my experiences, so you kissed me and I kissed back with a confidence you had yet to know. From then on, our visions of each other were visions of home. We fit together. We fit in. We ignored what we left behind and wrapped ourselves in what we would soon need to forget. Each other. Our aligned politics and our love of The Road To Awe. The dates of absinthe and reggae. It was a brief romance. Too brief. I had to walk away from you a happy nomad en route to another someplace. And not a day goes by where I don’t hope to go back…



Quiet Brilliance.

Imagine you’re the sun and you’ve been straining for a billion eons to keep this whole beautiful thing together; spinning it round with Swiss precision - deified, worshipped, feared, loved, needed. You’ve been here the whole time hunting emptiness explosion after silly explosion. Every eruption, every flare more powerful than all our earthly bombs combined. Such feeble imitations, as loud and destructive as they are unnecessary, yet you’ve never made so much as a peep. A bright monk muted by space since it all began and still you’re able to coax smiles from the dandelions each springtime. Your silence the price of pure creation.



There is great wonder in the mundane hopes of antelopes and misanthropes to just survive the day ahead, well fed, from grass and sassafras, with buttoned up and layered torsos radiating furry dreams even more so than the funny lions laying in the weeds, contemplating bloody deeds as your eyes contact and your frightened mind pleads, but their thirsty tongues begin to drip and you know to run but fear you’ll slip, ending up in the mouths of dread shaking and puking and covered in red certain in minutes you’ll be dead as the scene plays out inside your head, so you turtle under the covers and instead decide it’s best to stay in bed…



The undisputed fact that heartbeats synch amongst unconscious animals in close proximity is simple proof of a universal rhythm we all end up dancing to even when we can’t hear…