Faking structure through the years,
Answers lost in amber beers.
Waking up to each new day,
Hoping I will float away,
High above the reach of man,
His damning, racist, hateful clan.
To a place of deepest night,
Safe from bigots "cleansing light."
Darkness thick as velvet rope
Holds together all my hopes,
And dreams and fears and all desires,
Under stars and nightly fires.
Break away from everyone,
Claim the night, blot out the sun.
When one day the long sleep falls,
I'll journey down those crimson halls,
To crypts of love and memories lost,
Without a care about the cost.

Nobody really knows
Which, if any, way the wind blows.
Drifting by on fading dreams,
All for one, no time for teams.
Days gone by when we flew high on vapors not of rolling papers but of our playful youthful capers, daring mates as daylight tapers.
Now the times have changed for ill,
When all we praise is Dollar Bill.
Robots set on cruise control,
But what's the purpose, what's the goal?
When the dam will burst at last, cleansing all that was our past,
We'll have the life and riches, too,
But what's the point when you're not you?

Her hot breath bathes your bare chest in the warmth that nothing else can provide. One hand wrapped around the waist, legs intertwined, she sleeps, her gentle, steady heartbeat as infectious as any melody you've ever known. The only source of light is a flickering candle, casting dancing shadows upon the walls and ceiling. Discarded garments and drained bottles of wine litter the floor, the obvious aftermath of an evening quite certainly well spent.
The stage is set, and the actors are in position. The assembled crowd holds it's collective breath, both eager and fearful of how this tale is to end. As our two young lovers sleep deeply, the candle continues to fade, it's once exuberant and animated flame growing ever dimmer, until it fails in a sudden plume of smoke.
On cue, the comely lass springs to life, situating herself to straddle our poor lad. Her auburn hair falls to form a curtain around her suddenly nightmarish features. In one swift movement, she swings the dagger 'round and plunges it deep into his flailing torso. With sickening precision, she reaches in and forcefully removes his still beating heart. She makes her way to the door, the heartbeat fading to a gentle throb as she increases the distance between you, until it disappears into the cool night air.
The curtains fall. Applause. The audience departs, returning to their lives, unaffected by the passionate butchery they've just witnessed. The female lead goes on to enjoy the accolades and affection attended to shooting stars, as our unfortunate male is relegated to the role of bit player.
Oh, how I miss the days of dreamless slumber.

Coarse concrete passes under bare feet while funk beats propel my body along the street. Cars fly by towards ***** soaked twilight beneath the stars and street lights, as the black and whites prepare to patrol and control the night. Clubs packed to capacity hock their swill to the patrons, twirling and milling about in the hopes of not leaving alone. These fleeting moments of torrid romance hold no interest for this bloodshot brother of the night time world as I wander towards Townhouse 124. Fresh air fills my lungs as drunken party songs are sung beyond this aural wall of Clinton, praise be given for the funk has risen! Lying down now, in my bed, are where the sweetest songs are bled. From the wounds inside my mind, the words flow out like crimson tide. When I see the morning light, bid farewell to dearest night. Though we'll be reunited soon, I'll miss the comfort of the moon, bringing with its calming glow, a break from sun shines rays of woe.

The street lights bathe with golden glow
People passing on roads below.
Where they come from, who they are,
All meaningless, beneath the stars.
But when two people chance to meet,
And share the loves they seldom speak,
They form a bond no test can break,
Love to give is love to make.

Prologue



MyBar. The first time I heard that name, I remember thinking, "who the **** would name their club 'MyBar?'"

Three months, and innumerable trips later, I find myself thinking, "who the **** would enjoy going to MyBar?"

I am not included in that set of answers. Yet here I am anyway, stowing my ID and half muscling, half falling through the front door. Underclassmen from every clique, packed crack to **** on a 16x16 dance floor, in a dark, dank, dive that even the townies don't bother with. The pumped up pulses of the beat can be felt deep down in the bones, as the neon lights cast perverse shadows onto the throbbing masses. The basketball team stands against the wall as some of the more negotiable ladies in the club line up to publicly proclaim their devotion to our athletics department by very nearly, and perhaps occasionally, riding them like jockeys in a steeplechase. The players, sadly, likely felt akin to judges at the Westminster.

The sounds and sights assault the senses, mingling none to well with the excess of alcohol coursing through my system. Disoriented and dangerously uncoordinated, I slide seamlessly through the tightly packed crowd, the gyrating bodies of my fellow classmen gently propelling me deeper like a living, breathing conveyor belt.

Nothing in my appearance hints at the fact that I feel barely able to stand. Though I was a freshman, I was no stranger to getting falling down drunk, and had developed enough of a tolerance to the strange brew to maintain my composure under all but the most intense circumstances, as I would discover during Spring Weekend.

Despite the oppressively tight mass of bodies, the uncontained volume levels, and the array of lights, I manage to focus my intoxicated attention upon the girl in front me. She has hair the color of a glass of bourbon, and a temperament to match. Dark brown eyes, deep red lips, and lightly tanned skin covered up on this evening by a leopard print top and skinny jeans rounded out the package of the most beautiful lady I had ever managed to gain the interest of. Despite her sharp features, she was actually kind and generous. Most of the time. The other times, well, we'll get to that.

This woman is the only reason I'm here tonight. The same could be said for any other night that I come out here. But there's no saying no to her.  Even if it weren't for the fact that I was raised to honor my mates wishes (within reason), it simply wouldn't be worth the headache to disagree. If she wants something, she'll get it, and it's better to have her come home happy than in devil driver mode. Besides, it isn't all bad.

Most people would call what we're doing "dancing." I would call it "public dry *******." But these are the times we live in, I suppose. In any case, I've certainly had worse nights than tonight.

Later on as the crowd thinned out, I was just about to do the same, smoking a cigarette on the snow covered deck around the front of the building. Clothed coitus can really drain a guys reserves. Especially one who's only nourishment in the past five hours has been Jaegermeister and cigarettes.

Our little group begins it's exhausted yet boisterous journey back to the dorm rooms. My girl friend of three months, much like every other night we drink, is absolutely twisted. Propped up between two of us, she laughs uncontrollably as she sways from side to side, bucking us off balance as she does. By the time we get through the door, she's calmed down enough to be inside of a building.  Stripped to our skivvies, we climb into bed and turn off the lights. My roommate has yet to return from wherever he's disappeared to, so before we pass out, well, **** I was there I know what happened.

Anyway, she's just nodded off to sleep when I notice a smell wafting through the hallway. Were I in the comfort of my own home and smelled this smell, it would simply have meant that I left my popcorn in for a few seconds too long. However, being where I am,  I know better than to-- EEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHH

******* THREE AM ******* FIRE ALARMS!

Welcome to St. Bonaventure.

In this violet hour, as dreams court demons and the seams holding the ocean of your soul threaten to split and spill forth your essence into the sky above, time almost seems to stand still. The space around you becomes skewed as gravity gives way to weightless flight above a world that never made sense to you in the first place. All the pain, persecution, and perils that are inflicted upon such immense portions of the populations of no one single nation, but all races, creeds, and castes, and at the end of the day it all boils down to the search for the almighty dollar. But none of that matters to you anymore. As you are borne on by invisible wings along the waves of the universe, guided towards the boundaries of feeling, you begin to embrace the emptiness that is nothingness. Your once harried mind now free from the chaos of being, unclouded by delusions of grandeur and eternity, you allow yourself all the time you need to enjoy this respite from thought. Time has become meaningless. Eons pass, knowable existence collapsing inwards on itself, only to explode into radiance and vitality once more. The cycle continues, hundreds of times in the space of time necessary to form a few sentences, while at the same time accelerating to such a point that galaxies could be traversed in the breadth of a heartbeat. Adrift in the void, with no tether back to the realm of mortals, the only course of action is to allow yourself to be lost to sightless visions and wordless descriptions of an existence that you can no longer remember.