Beneath me is a busy street, around me are caffeine fiends, behind me are friends, yet I am momentarily stuck on what I cannot reach. My mind has not left our last encounter.

We were both so still, neither of us knowing how to react, as the lyrics so accurately depicted our feelings toward one another.

Alone, silent, and constricted we listened. I was so hopeful, you were so distant. As we created together your sadness lifted and the air was different. We left our hearts in our heads and explored the humor we've always used. After creating you told me that you felt the only cure for depression was creation. I smiled and felt like crying as I looked at your eyes. I had no response.

"I feel I must be wearing my welcome. I must be moving on. My intentions were good intentions. I could have loved you, I could have changed you. I wouldn't be so, I wouldn't feel so consumed by selfish thoughts. I'm sorry if I feel self effacing, consumed by selfish thoughts. It's only that I still love you deeply, it's all the love I got," sang Sufjan. We so silently listened. We did not look at one another. We were both scared in that moment. I was scared in that moment. I did not expect what I heard, I was scared of what I heard, as he had taken the thoughts out of my head.

Perhaps those lyrics did not strike you in the way they struck me. They were piercing. But I know you; your thoughts wander to places that I cannot reach in those moments.

Your mind travels so far. I used to know where you went, in your fits of silence, but you have changed. I know so little as the direction. East, West, near, far. I can only guess.

Now I sit at the window, silently listening to music that we so recently silently listened to together. Still so accurately depicting how I feel.

You have changed, you have grown, you have shrunk. I have done the same, for better and for worse. Our love is seemingly lost, but still lingers in every conversation and glance and thought.

This same place, where I wrote about you, both good and bad, where I spoke to you on the phone, where we came together. This place has not changed at all. It doesn't know how much we've changed, how much you've changed, or how much I've changed. But in some ways, we are just like this place in which I sit - we haven't  changed. We remain the same.

Uh ripping poets up
Til they showing guts
Why cuz I got the biggest nuts strut
Standing long longer than traffic
Dark as an attic critics
Get jumped like crickets stick it
To ya cuz I'm wicked
Hate to sound harsh but I'm realistic
Kicking statistic style be mystic
Sick with the flow that I throw
Looking fo bolo but I roll solo
Black Rambo
Army of one with extended ammo
Never In camo-
Flauge stay in threes
****** you like *******
Haters see the stars embedded with scars
Tell me about ohh child no smiles
On my face **** the paperchase
I'm trying to end the rat rAce
While y'all chase I place first
Vengeance is mine thus the Lord gave me the shine as I blind
You mediocre cuz I'm about to yoke the jokers

If I give you 80 minutes
Of a head start
I'll still catch up plus my guard
Is large don't need a charge
Battered up by the solar Sun
Fall to none reigning champions
Cuz all the flippers is lame son
Sound the alarm cuz I'm getting warmer
Swarming ya
Like honey to bees wind to breeze
Can't knock me down kid
Once I Sneeze ya back up before I act up
Corrupt government attornies
Get smacked up tore up
From my muthaphukkin Mack
Never turn yo back
Cuz them critics Will chit chat
Watch the fights break out Southside is where I'm running at
Safe haven I'm misbehavin
Got too many spirits wise
Considered maven
Thoughts dark as a raven
Wrinkle the game up dryer than raisin
He'll raising
Cuz chaos in the streets
Poets move ya feet put it to sleep
Cuz I'm in too deep
Like ***** making **** noises choices
By me made carefully
Led my enemies to they fatality
Final destiny
To he'll where ya soul dwells
Castin spells learned it well
Fools poppin gums and um poppin shells
Ghost open just hoping
How can ya stop me
But the resurgence of rhymes is too sky high Braille third eyes
Hypnotize lies posed in guise
Show you a picture of broken scripture through out the textures
I'm.laying my aesthetic poetry
**** any and everybody
That got a way with the problems I swing
Once again ya mediocre I'm locin ya yoke a joker

Paperchase and a hundred tiny blankets are the moon, but I'd take a plane to a tiny island on another earth far from ours and far from our moon. Of course, it holds no comparison. But how could it? How could it when years and years of history and development and discovery have been made about the moon, while finally an organism was found on this tiny island on a tiny earth somewhere so far away from our earth and from our moon. That tiny island's just got to be a little bit closer. It's moving at a snail's pace toward me, but it's moving. And someday, if it's ever possible, maybe I'll go there. I'd take a plane there, if I could. It's just not close enough and I can't afford a rocket. But I would, if it would accept a visitor. Maybe even a resident.

It's nice to daydream about a vacation on an island far, far away. It's so perfect and unique and foreign. Are there other people there? I hope there are not. I would like to be the only one there when I finally arrive.

For now I will keep sending postcards, in hopes they will be received.

The last time I has *** was in London.
Here is a list of thing I’d rather have been doing;

>Going to The Diner in Soho and eating a hotdog with bacon and sour cream (yes, that euphemism was entirely intentional)

>Touching all the pretty things in the massive, three-storey Paperchase

>Losing myself in the British Museum (hey, did you know that tentacle **** is older than electricity?)

>Lying in my back in Hyde Park and letting the rain fall on my face

>Avoiding living statues (they scare the **** out of me)

>Eating at that café on Barking Road

>Chasing pigeons in Trafalgar Square and resisting the urge to sit on one of the lions

>Dancing in front of a busker in Waterloo tube station

>Attending a Nick Cave gig and crying because he’s such a beautiful man

>Sitting in an art gallery and giggling at the tiny *******

>Wandering around Anne Summers, looking at things I can‘t afford but are very shiny none-the-less

>Giving tourists the right directions, because I’m not a complete ****

Anything but you

the speedphone in your head
sparky and light trailed,
as a dancer with closed steps
you open doors in the night;

sometimes a ghost, a lost thought,
your pages are torn and mixed, you're
burnt as a nut, a failed paperchase
of loose  clues, brillant and wild
running with the comets to dawn