i spend my sundays waiting for the sun to reach the edge of my sagging roof porch and
in the sprawling moments in which i wait i flip through pages which tell me of my destiny
and i try to figure out why the **** i care about a future that i may never know,
but good god do i care.

these words swim in front of me like creatures in an effervescent pool, glowing green,
because of some strange algae **** that sticks to them and their surroundings,
forever catching my eye and interest, though they will never leave the pool, or in this case,
the pages on which they lie.

i analyze each past moment in contingency with each morsel of advice this book has to offer
and i wonder how many times i've already ****** up on my karmic path,
but somehow i find comfort in the small intricacies that weave within my own existence,
time passed in the way the book spells it out.

i start to wonder if this is any different than witch craft, or religion,
and i find myself faced with another question, what exactly do i believe in?
suddenly i realize that the purpose of this book isn't to give me answers, it's to make me ask questions,
and that's when i slam it shut.

i'm sick of answering questions and wondering who i am, like i'm some ******* hero from an epic,
plus the sun's starting to warm the dark roof that scrapes my bare feet when i pace back and forth,
and the only thing that makes sense right now is going outside and
lighting my last ******* cigarette.