I am content being in my closet-bed, safe and alone. I am ok with my window open and the night air. I can switch the switch of pursuit, fondness and a candid smile. I have my own sphere of existence and I am happy to have it. I cannot always start running on a new chapter of my life but I am fully able to continue to ream in the past with new vigor and statistical desperation. I am one of a few million-million and it is still unclear what creates the legend of capital uniqueness. I love my father and mother and always my sister. I want better for everyone and myself. I want to love on them all that I can.  Marriage no, children no, family is what I have as conflicting and contradicting as it may be. Thing fall apart. I love the ugly moments of my ceiling.

I am not a new story waiting to happen. I am not a ravid political face or frenzy. I am not a desperate grunt who got his just-comings. I am not the type to be escorted in any way by the crumpled void of fallacius fame and humble-beginning-fortune. I am the desperate coat bearer of the northeast bronx. I have the mind of a child. I have the graces of rat. I have the public anticipation of a broken man apart from his chariot-era. When sitting I grow anxious and hungry and mis-mannered and poor and terrified. I throw away any hour to the madness of deep seething and wallowed whispers of loathing per-the manuscript writings of two years ago. I cannot help myself like others can. I cannot say what haunts me the way they can. It's the deaf ears and I have some too. I was born this way and I who I am. They are permissible and I am another anachronism. I am tempted to start over somewhere completely unknown and away. I just want to break free from the cycle my age and be with my age. I want to chase my girl around the city and stop at another house and have another long conversation about the same daily occurrence of you evenings. Then move on when you have moved on and see straight into another tomorrow like I was unable to until now. To write myself out of another horrific night, alone. Defeated by my own revelations of my own determined normalcy and struggle for authentic dialog. Near the line of conviction that I should never say another word because the shy me now will be appalled by the shy me years later. That I will surely be an embarrassment in my own if I ever stepped on a stage. That I have nothing, and will never have anything, worthy or useful to the world around me. That I am completely doomed to die forgotten and unoriginal.