creeping** cold fingers slipping through the cracks in our-house is built upon old western roots that sometimes find their way up into our heads and fill us with these notions of history and purpose as if an accumulation of past events was enough to create meaning out of a shapeless empty night is where they all seem to run off to in search of something more than themselves but mostly just recognition as they hold up mirrors to the world imploring everything they see to be as they are and love as i-love the way she would bundle up her hair and let it rest atop her like a curled sleeping little cat with-sideways-eyes she glanced but never truly looked at me which was enough to shatter my inclinations towards something more than just acquaintances or any other empty word thats less than what i-always-wanted to be more to someone than they were to me and maybe i am but it never seems to happen with the right people or maybe i havent been paying attention to all those I left behind crying alone before life stopped letting me hurt because living takes things that dont exist like balance becomes impossible in this world of flux where everything we are and want just ebbs and flows.