can you believe that i would pour her milk into my glass, knowing that it was sour and masked.


i would do it it in a heartbeat.  

boris.

sixteen thousand buckets staring at the biggest, fastest, mark.
i saw this well before you did.
you could have seen it too if you had looked with something other than your eye's eye's eye.
no one does that anymore.
it's not effective.
i would rather drink my own soup than listen to that anyway.

I felt like I cried too much just then, with my head in your lap and my cheeks stinging with salty tears.

I want to die today, but I can't bring you with me.
I can't bring you with me in the bleak narrow curvings of my soul absent doubt.
I hate hating myself so much.
When I look in the mirror I judge from predisposed and painted self doubt.
I trim my frame with unrealistic absurdities that make matters worse by setting them self up for failure to begin with.
I do not think one should continue to prevent them self from cutting off their own airflow to preserve another being's feelings.
Though the act of suicide is selfish, and abstaining from the act to keep others from blaming themselves is in fact selfless; however perpetual self loathing is almost as demanding a lifetime of guilt that comes out of wishing you could have done something to help.

I sit on the inside looking out. And more of the time I am perched in there, I am looking around, from within.

Disolving the interior and remembering the good old walls.

What happened to those willful walls and forgiving storage areas? Nothing is ever good enough; like a mingy white room-once coated twice, but over time has been repainted in folding colors, creating a texture that was not meant to gain, nor pleases as a result.

I want all of the excuses and laziness and hastiness to melt away and the chaos that sits with darkness at the corners of everything, to fall away as toxic as they are, and I want to sit outside of myself and watch in praise and humble patience.

I have a friend that likes to build things.

He has a lot of ideas and patience.

He repairs things that are broken.

There is always something funny to be said.

This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight ***. When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.

The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.

Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.

We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.


We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.

I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.

Everything has gotten so crowded.

So tired; need sleep. I am lying in bed: fresh clean bedding, wearing a t-shirt and green underwear. I think that I should be asleep.

Really good music.

Not anymore.

-WAIT MAYBE.

Yea

It is incredibly early right now;

6:24 am.

I'm tired but once again cannot sleep.
I want to










This should be fine. It is fine

I wonder about all of that fuzz. The fact that it was the morning and it seemed as if there was something that could be done.

The first time I saw you was so clarified; so apparent and vivid and lovely.

I remember seeing you and breaking time for a moment . I remember you , then.

I was drawn to you. I swallowed your ear with my verbal connotations.

and you called me back.

meanwhile, deep, boxed in my brain lived a freshly painted sign that read: