the spigot has run dry, its a desert out here, grimace while you’re trying to make it, trying to ******, the bars are beckoning, madness, out of your control, the smoke around your face, you’re laid out on your back, a defeatist, shackled to the plank, memories stick and then they fade out, wasted, wasted away, and you follow with your hands, you shove them into the dirt, and you try to remake what was given to you,, you put eyes in the little scuplture, but its crooked, and it stands helpless amongst the others, in a display window, where passersby think that it is creepy,

"creepy"!!!!

they say, and that is what you are, combing, combing, chasing down airplanes that departed for the towers, their destination is history, and their timing is a bead in your eye, in time, it halts right before it strikes you, inimaginable quest, one episode, and then, its over