it begins as a series of unfounded berations on everything; which in itself is a statement against nothing.

what really was needed was a place to begin.

there will be the ones who are forever lost in the maze of one's drunkenness.

in a way she feels like a drunken thought. spurted out without thought and then carried over to sobriety.

together with the ***** stained denims and the borrowed t-shirts (were they borrowed alright)

she can't be churned into the washer like the rest

she's out there burying herself in deep resentment

because she can not forgive me

she gave herself that disease when she refused to grant forgiveness for sins committed in anger

since when, though, has the truth ever been an offense?

cuts deep

deeper that the most merciful lies one can serenade her with

we can not have anything if we refuse to confront what is real

but ke?

what's done is done.

these berations on nothing itself

are all that is left

most of these things remain unexplained

the story in itself is synthesizing, everyday, unwittingly. unauthoured, playing itself out like water lazily floating down a river

towards a fantastic waterfall

or right into the mouth of a gaping, yearning sinkhole - where it will not die, but steadily keep propagating itself beneath all observance and veneration

and perhaps sip out from a well-meaning spring somewhere deep in the uncharted lands

it's like that. it should be like that. just as all else is what it is.