Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

Held the hand of my bride
Stars explode around her
Teaching beauty to the world

As I marched into the kitchen with a flamboyant step, a cigarette held high in hand, and the glow of the pinnacle ash, a replacement for a beacon illuminating a quietness trailing through the dark air, I sensed a cooling of sweet thunder, a pale congregation quickly lapsed into nervous rapture. A place where one may glide upon the icy sheets of innocent malfunction, onto a sweaty platform, which springs a guest into the ****** air and whose peers gaze excitedly at the spectacle.

Let beauty influence the architecture of thought

She wears broken glass for earrings
Superior failures
Relationships that sparkle with intelligent pain
Eyes full of nighttime bliss

After having spoken awhile of the predatory smiles that wake her from the bottom of a cup in porcelain sleep, the polite guests that convinced her that they too be included in the tea games, played by a thousand gold lions that prance upon the wooden clocks in her dreams, ripping them to pieces and having let bled a spill of mechanical works with insane parts, furiously looking for the history in which they will piece themselves back together, I once again fell under the spell of this profession, trained in breaking glass.

She wears a crown of raindrops
Beautiful sad
Rebellion tragedy
Pretty moon shines young moonlight
Desperate dreaming