The snow carpets everything.

And I can't see.
It's so bright.

The white permeates existence and shines oh so brilliantly.
Blotched here and there with the thrown up refuse of passing cars.
***** grey stains on the blinding incandescent light.

My eyes hurt.

As I see the silhouette of a magpie.
Chasing away a mangy old fox who won't survive the winter.
And  I'm always tired.
Walking on.
This slippery ice.

I always catch myself.

Before I fall.

But,
My scarf is falling down.
The wind bites my legs.
I am unfortunately always unorganized and unprepared.

But.
In my mind.

I'm striking a pose with an idealized fantasy image of myself 23 years ago.
So I look in the mirror

and slip.

Still an old man.
Still walking.
Still broke.

And still unable to see.
Directly into the sun.

I've given up on.

Love.

Everyone's the same.
And, I don't know where to
meet anyone.

Least alone someone.
I would
like.

Smart women who like art.
Bad poetry.
Good fashion sense.

Won't
go for.

Holy renunciates like me.
Trance states and hallucinogens.
Metaphorical symbolic mythology and ranting.
About God and a malplaced accident.

And, baby, I don't  like basic *******.
Unless I'm *****.

But, love?

It's a foreign thing that women throw around.
That I hear too much of.
From conditional people
And I make it awkward.

I just met you.

I've met a lot of people who haven't met anyone like me before.
But, never.
The Opposite.

I used to believe in love at first sight.
Then I took a look.

And,
My desire is ankle deep.

She told me she was never happy.
As I made her laugh.

And,
She said that she felt alone.
Whenever she talked to me.

And,
Maybe I don't pick on signs.
But, I wonder if it coulda been something good.

If I had just said hello.

Maybe made her laugh.
I don't really know.
I'm relatively oblivious to the things.

Going on around me.

I don't know the difference.
Between one mystifying display of emotion.
From the other.

But shouldn't being happy when.
Mostly you're miserable be a sign.

There coulda been an us.

I remember.
When God told me.
'Is this the best you can do?  Life in a room?'

And from my heart I said.

In here.
I can forget I exist.

Exist.

Only as a stray thought.
It's not my prison.
It's the twenty feet I can control.

When everything is so.

Fragile.

Everything.
All the time.
All at once.
And, I make sense.
Out of the tangents.
Writing the narrative that is my life.
And, will you be a footnote in the poorly worded.

Dialogue.

And, will you be a friend to the no one I've become.
An, index to all my poor plot choices and poorly rounded characters.
That pepper my life.
With the mundane.

Mediocre.

The sky is so beautiful.
On fire.

I'm a conflagration.
Away from an Apocalypse.
And the beasts they bray.

In their fields.
With their burdens.

And me.

I'm suavely waving off all responsibility.
Just doing my time.
In this prison.
Waiting for my body.

To catastrophically fail.

I scream.
And no one hears me.
So I cut the perormative ****.
Hurl about my verbal diahrrea.
***** it to the lights on the screen.
Safe in the liminal state.
Of I'm not really here.
I'm just wasting time