I will continue to write in remembrance of his inspiration. For I am not committed to any form or force of expression rather I choose to indulge in the ***** mediums made with slow slurring and rhythmic outbursts. But they are devices to be pitied, dull and decrepit from years of tantalizing abuse by many rulers and scribes. Why did you leave Austin? You had so much yet to let me learn of an enduring and angst-riddled soul. The hours spend sitting, trying to decipher each other’s language and tone. I paced myself for the sparks we would strike on walks by the canal, regrouping each night, too wild and crazed to of known empty figures from friends. Sitting that night on the roof of who-knows-who’s home, looking out at the street lights of Magnolia, deliberating the finer points of it's message and meaning far beyond any hope of achieving any answer; just truly sitting silent inside, too moved by what we had seen. These rare eyes given to you and I finally found courage in those ceaseless evenings which only put humanity in question more and more, night by night caught furiously in the ebb n’ flow of monstrous possibility, of gentle breezes and the tyranny of thoughtless men. After you left I stuck around for a while. It was dried up past my ability to stomach any more. I don't really know what was so undesirable about friends we use to run flags with that pushed me away but they where a crowd I felt had nothing left to tell or offer me. In all honesty they began to sicken me thinking about how they sickened you. I didn't even want to wake up; to sleep through the Fridays and Saturdays where no one could find me. Resting in frightened dreams, windows open to the foxtrot-cotton air dancing on my face with a gentle appeal of conscious being that I may be fearless yet wrapped in all bliss and achievement. Still for you my friend, I carry those words; regardless of how many moments I run into that say otherwise. I can still hear your faith in me, resonating back off the wall again and again. Even on that night hearing moans from the room up stairs, your words carried me home and into bed; betrayal had no grips on my eyes. I saw past it. Beautiful-she: the depravity of all men, once and now to us, do we deserve more than colorful intentions that leave dust on our window seals. We deserve better than harlots running down the streets. We deserve better than those less than beautiful, with perfect faces covered in perfect carbon paint. No my friend I want the battered and scared who's lines glow ever more dissonant in the moonlight. I sat in the sunlight today by the water reading the Great Gatsby watching mallard ducks couple up and down, embroidered males chasing after brown stripped females, as boats passing by rippled the water with their wakes, crashing into the wall I was sitting by, pushing away. Two years are gone and I still can't forgive myself. What you have to understand is I still hold on to the depth of her hurt and from that I have learned too much already. The joys of fearing love and never admitting that I care for the hallow banter and easily forgotten confessions. Those half-planned collisions of flesh that never get the resolution they deserve, but rather twist in every moment they are deprived of such satisfaction; this is what animates me to write and stirs every voice inside me.