put the key in the ignition, the car into drive, and all your gross post-*** insecurities to the back of your mind. forget you don’t have a license. forget she’s asleep in the bed that knows your panic attacks like they’re a late-night tv special and roll out onto the road - don’t hit the neighbor’s buick - drive. drive.

take the route you used to sneak over to your boyfriend’s house in 7th grade. feel the ghosts of his hungry pubescent hands under your bra, get that old lump in your throat, wish you could go back in time and scream that you weren’t ready and that you’d never be ready and that one day you’ll be seventeen driving down his street hating the way he used to own you. remember that his street is also your street. remember that you’re worth owning things too.

pass by the house your best friend used to live in, back when summers meant hot cheetos and horchata instead of cigarettes and cheap sangria. pray that one day you’ll be that way again, happy and fearless and okay with being alone. scold yourself for praying.

forget where you’re going until your stomach growls and the road gets narrow. then keep driving.

I have come to conclusion
over sunpierced crust
brittle as tobacco leaf
astride mottled nag
scraggling on loose gravel
sandsoaked
saltsteeped
leadheavy in lid
past dactyled tracks
parallel cobbled macadam
wavering shale
lockjawed lava rock
fractured cobalt
lone juniper
forgotten scrub
open boil of tar and pitch
halfburied bones of leviathan
still shifting in the clouded boom
of stone
through grapeshot hail
adobed pueblos
thatchskinned women
and straw men
all witches
flaying the gila
pestling scale with cornmeal
and fermented mescal
desert sangria
hallucinating sideways in the murk
where coyotes yip
and each star a conflagration
mirrored in the captive eyes
of floundered meteorites
at the terminus
where sun and moon merge
I know the question
and response
from where do you come
to where do you go

I drowned the thought of you in my 11pm Sangria ritual to chase away the demons that plague my mind, that tell me I am not good enough for you. The bed we once shared now suffers from a cold spot from where you use to lay with me. We use to generate so much heat when our bodies touched that I thought we would become hotter than the sun. You use to tell me how beautiful I was; that I held my Moscato white wine with such great precaution not to spill it that you thought I was an angel carrying a soul to the hands of God. You knew my heart was delicate. After all, the very sight of me sent venom pulsing through your veins, sort of like you wanted to destroy my already-feeble bones. Your anger teased out shyness in me, and when you decided to lift your hand that one faithful night to smack me it sent me crawling on my hands and knees for forgiveness, just to see that we wouldn’t end up on the road my parents once were. You made tears swell up in my eyes when you were inside me, and soon I learned not to cry when you decided to plow my body, a land for the taking. Parts of me started dying, and soon I was nothing but an empty shell with dampened eyes. You took, and took, until you got furious at me that there was nothing left to take. Sometimes I still sit in the corners of my bedroom silent because you loved me most when you saw me there, your tiny little ghost just waiting for you to make her disappear. And on some nights when I was with you, disappearing didn’t seem all too bad- you use to scare me enough that I wished you had removed the love marks you left on my alabaster skin. What we had was toxic, and I was on life support just to get by the fact that I was nothing more than your special object. Day after wretched day you tortured me with ‘I love you’s’ and smacks across the face that caused blood to erode from my cheeks. My voice started to shake and yelps came through my mouth when you decided that my contorted body was a pleasure worth seeing, that my pain was the very essence of why you ever loved me to begin with. I can’t remember the first day you started to push me under, but I know that when you did you would never let me come up out of that black water for more than 3 seconds, just so I could get another gasp of air to last me a couple of more months. I will never regret the time you told me I was worth more than you, because maybe that was your healthy conscience talking. Maybe you could have loved me better. Maybe I could have listened more.

All I can say is that I will never forget the time you choked me hard enough that I couldn’t breathe; that you smacked my head so hard against our bedroom wall that the snap sent my brains splattering across what was now your floor.  

-ritual

conceptcollection

shirtless and drinking my six dollar sangria from a measuring cup.
never has the formula been so close to be solved. the exact moment when we can say we have made it.

twenty four onces in and my neighbor seems to be a little put off.
this same man comes outside once a day to ask me about college without even putting pants over his underwear so tonight I figure indifference is key.

Summer is a gross mess, even when your doing nothing you find yourself pouring sweat through your white button ups, you looked fine leaving and now that your here doing your best to sound interesting to girl at the bookstore you just look slightly sadder and fatter than before.

thirty six ounces and red teeth tell me that we have made it.

How do I tell you*
I love the way three dollar wine tastes,
a cheap buzz lighting up my veins,
merlot dripping tears on the floor
I sought for comfort last night.

How do I tell you
That silver is the sweetest color,
singing songs into flesh as I drag her
through scar ridden skin,
opening rivers and avenues
I could be an architect with the way I construct,
drawing with permanent marker on
scribbled, blood stained satin

How do I tell you
I break off pieces of myself,
store them in my broken heart bank,
savor memories for later, when ripped
liquid velvet
doesn't leak onto my fresh floor
anymore

How do I tell you
I curse your nightly name,
thick tongue tasting the
stale sangria of your lips

How do I tell you
How do I tell you
*How do I tell you

loose bones move around my body
dissolving tums and pills
drinking alcohol, sangria filled lungs
desert kisses and the poisoning of the eye
bleeding with the dying ******
swaying to the sound of his slow beating heart
a painted tiger and a burst of hearts
a feeling of rough hands against my *******
moaning to the vibrations of your vinyl collection
teenage death girls and the penalty of life
a monstrous collage of satin sheets and tongue against bodies
drinking orange juice from collarbones and hips,
pink wine, black wine, bottles on your lips
as you burn, die, dissolve
at last, a wine that tastes besides the vine
besides the vine.

-i'm loving you loving me boy

conceptcollection

The problem wasn't the money
or the fame,
not the taunt, ripe bruises
shining from her heart
or the painful creak of her
hip bones when she moved.

No, the problem wasn't
the seeping words or
the tightness in her chest
every time she passed a church.

It wasn't the way the holiday lights
made her head dizzy or
the floating sensations
in grocery store lines
and it was definitely not
how her associates nonchalantly
patted her back in passing,
blatant excuses to walk on.

It wasn't the smell of soap
or the staring for hours
at the ceiling.

It wasn't the long, smooth metal
of the numbing pipe or
the sweet taste of Sangria wine.

It wasn't the many times
she'd been used or
the indignation that set in
when the walls were quiet.

It wasn't even the tapping pipes
that kept her awake at night
with their torturous monotony.

The problem was not the comparisons
or the dismissive tendencies,
the disconnections,
the draining of her energy
or even the isolation.

It was not the quiet meditation
or the constant spirit guide speak,
not the unpaid bills on the mahogany desk
or the whirring sounds of
a radiator about to explode
in her only transportation.

It never was the monetary lack
or the diseased reality
she was never given
the choice to escape from.

No, the problem was the sadness,
living there in the base of her spine
like a tall, thin castle
spearing up into her vertebrae
until her whole being ached.

It was the way the sadness
made her muscles swell,
and her face become pasted
to cotton pillow shams,
the frown lines starting to
make their way to her chin and
the visuals consistently invading.

It wasn't the crass indifference
piling up on her skin like bones,
the remains of every person who
had touched her and left,
leaving another layer
added to the angst.

Instead it was the secrets
housed inside the sadness,
catacombs of skeletons
break dancing in her ballast,
as if her tears were raindrops
and the sobs a symphony.

So no, it wasn't the way she
robotically moved through her day
or the smiles she feigned,
not the haze in her eyes
left by too many nights of crying
or the sleep where memories faded.

It was just
the sadness.

{recorded version https://soundcloud.com/venniekocsis/the-sadness}

v.k poetry
copyright @ dbv publishing 2013

On a sound route map of the ‘70s,
his church-trained tenor voice
verging at times on falsetto
led  hordes of people to go on
holiday to Greece and Spain.
It was romantic, Mediterranean,
a perfect music background to sea,
“The morning sun”, ouzo and sangria.
Beverley, in the play  Abigail’s Party
voiced devotion to Demis Roussos
in her opinion: “He doesn’t sound fat.”
Kaftan-clad flowing black hair:
Demis was called “The Singing Tent”
Such poetry in song will last forever.  
Sing it again Demis.  

Tobias

“He had a superb voice. He was an
artist, a friend. I hope he is in a better world.”    
Nana Mouskouri.

Lyrics
Ever and ever, forever and ever you'll be the one
That shines in me like the morning sun
Ever and ever, forever and ever you'll be my spring
My rainbow's end and the song I sing
Take me far beyond imagination
You're my dream come true, my consolation
you'll be my dream
My symphony, my own lover's theme
(Ever and ever forever and ever) my destiny
Will follow you eternally
Take me far beyond imagination
You're my dream come true, my consolation
you'll be the one
That shines in me like the morning sun
(Ever and ever, forever and ever) my destiny
Will follow you eternally

Songwriters: Robert Constandinos / Stylianos Vlavianos

Standing at the gates of Hell
Entrance, One lead ticket I need
Questions will abound about
The way I came, not about
The way I will leave
Typical for those who
Will step over the
Sangria stain that will
Pool  around my jeans,
Drawing the curtains close
My journey ready to begin
The darkness embraces me
As a lover before
A mortal sin.
I inhale, and relax, for the
Way into the light depends on the
Might of a rockets front end.


~AD~

Hey, darling, did you see my heart fall out from my chest, walk backwards, trace that air kissed pathway and look for my heart dropped, lying like a trash, toffee wrapper in front of that rose hued walled café which serves the blueberry coffee with Irish cream that you love the way sea loves the shore, pick it up love, hold it in your hand, and walk backwards, you are one of those people who never leave a novel in the middle, please don’t throw me away, I am not stale yet ,but yes I am delicate like a flower, pour water and place me in vase, will you dear? I know you have had a chunk of it, its little filthy filled with bite marks, girls with dewy eyes and hair colored brighter than spring and darker than winter stole away my summer, but will you trace it and breathe your crimson colored fall leaves into it, they will burn brighter than the candles at Christmas.

Hey darling, walk backward to the starting point, when we met for the first time, at that Mexican restaurant downtown where you always drank Sangria with slice of mandarin orange on the side, I was the glass that you sipped through, did you notice I was scarred on the rim, your tongue slipped through, and deepened the cut down the surface, funny how I was never able to pierce your tongue and you trampled all over my heart like way rivers trample over the rocks in between the course of their flow, walk toward, to where you placed my heart in a vase, darling please wrap it up in bandages and kiss it ,I sleep wrapped up in your quilt for the last time in your queen size bed, please darling, fit my heart inside my body with half of yours attached to it like the planktons to the sea floor .

Hey darling, I have a heart big enough to forgive you, for I know you hold your breath inside your lungs for too long and never sing out the lyrics you write every night, darling, wake me up, trace the skin covering the rib cage, fold your hand into mine the way origamists turn sheets into work of art, and lets walk forward, walk forward giving into a start of a new season.

Though I’ve been ready for bed
Since the moment I woke up
I take one more sip
Of ****** sangria

One more “drag”-
As I’ve been taught to call it
By the older, cooler, kids
Who take a lot more drags
Than myself-
On a cheap cigarette

One more kiss
On one more set of lips

And one more fleeting thought
That maybe it’s all just part of
A single careless search
For the set of lips that kisses back;
A search with no regard for
Whatever face to which those lips
Could be mounted...

Though I know that’s not true-
As I finally
Close my eyes,
I know (I think)
That’s simply
Just not true

Back roads like my image seem destined for only past reflection for ive burnt the image within the depths
of a dirrty song and a broken soul.
Track marks warm feeling can you embrace my day eternal and gather my sense for just one more write.
Can i hold it togather just for one more night?
Im sorry i cant speak within these confines lets give madness a manic spin in a shallow crowd.

As a dim lit room the wine will flow sangria's fire can you replace that which I no longer control?
It used to be freedom now it only is a action like some trained monkey or circus animal i know the routine but never do i thrive as once i did befor.

As for passion it's as dead as my voice that echos within this tomb.
Do you know what it is to die twice.?
I never did thirst for the norm and now im overwhelmed by rejection it's so very hard to run on junkies leg's.
Page I can only spoil your plessure for the well has went dry leaving only a fool with a tin cup to die of thirst beside you.

Another summers play ive passed more thoughts unwritten to a audience of stars .
When words dont connect there simply empty call's apon the wind.
But a fools  yerning is but a role and this play has been cast for another.

I hope you understand that which makes me only question in a paranoid late night haze.
The nightwatch no longer my own time has come for me to step aside.

You could have been my Catalan queen.
Such a pocket-sized delight,
Like the one sung by Jack White,
But more of a fun and friendly scene.

You studied graphic design,
And looked after my Spanish group,
And made me want to always stoop
To embrace you for all time.

I'd have given the world to see that smile,
See your beauty one more time,
Sit down with a glass of wine,
Or beer, sangria for a little while.

The offer was open, disguised by others,
And I strongly felt that you were keen,
But, alas, the student's disco scene
Would prevent us from being lovers.

And so I sit, alone with pen,
And mourn what was never meant to be -
It breaks my heart that it is likely
That we will never meet again.

the ice sliced the street while counting the paced steps under my breath. we're all here for the temporary feeling — the things that kept us alive, the books that were written, the songs that were sang. your demitasse of cold coffee and glass of sangria with fruits that was drenched in the cold blood of wine. the intervals of your horrible sanity, the tingling edges of your pulse and the pain in its very unusual degree. the infinite possibilities of what can be taken away from you until you actually run out of things to write about or realizing that nothing is meant to last for more than lightyears away in time.

What does nineteen sixty nine mean to you?
The last dying tremor of the swinging sixties,
Woodstock and exotic moon landings,
Empty-headed teenagers and wasted hippies
Dancing in the fading glimmer of youth,
Their painted beads perished in the sun?

Or maybe you weren't even born then
And all you know is a tatty documentary film
About a media-created pop music fest,
And some footage of silver-shining Michelin men
Jumping about in lunar zero gravity,
(Which malicious rumour has it was faked -
Anything to distract the American public from
The inevitable national humiliation in Vietnam).

So let me remind you how it really, really was:
Swinging London was rocking like crazy,
Wow, it was so cool, the groovy discos served
Delicious lukewarm coca-cola after eleven p.m.,
And trendy Britain was a cute place to be gay
With homosexuality finally legalised
After a century of puritanical persecution,
Except that the law reform didn't apply in
Scotland or Northern Ireland or to the armed forces
And you had to be twenty-one and you could only do it
In private and if no third person was there.
And theatrical censorship was still in force
Which meant all naughty plays were blue-pencilled
By bureaucrats and narrow-minded prigs.

So let me remind you how it really, really was:
Religious riots in Belfast, Franco still in power in Spain,
And you could go there for a cheapo sunshine holiday
With watered down sangria in the shade of a bayonet;
The Berlin Wall an unchallenged affront to human decency,
Thanks to old man Kosygin in absolute power in the Kremlin,
His iron rule in force throughout Eastern Europe,
Poor Prague's defeat emphasised by occupying Soviet tanks.
And lovely Greece, birthplace of democracy, home to Zorba's dance
(Except that it was a criminal offence under the Colonels
To play any of Theodorakis' music because the most famous Greek
Was condemned as a ******* communist revolutionary *******).

So, let me remind you how it really, really was:
Nixon in the White House, half a million American troops
Fighting a losing battle for democracy in Vietnam
(More accurately against democracy, but the jury is still out on that),
And nearly as many US citizens on the march against the war.
Whilst the rest of the world looked on in indifference,
Since they had had enough common sense to stay out of it.
And when we think back to such a terrible, terrible year,
All the media seems to tell us is the insipid lie
That nineteen sixty-nine was a lovely summer of love.
It wasn't like that, it was boring and provincial and I was there.

I am not
    tall
not jack and the
giant growth spurt,
been small bean
tiny roots my
whole life.
I am
adult child
tippy toes to kiss
those who turn
their cheek every time.
I am not
sunny enough for
anyone to live off me.
I am
9:30 pm
blacked out drunk
photo in front of
my universities chapel
because i never remember
when i find god
or if i ever
really did.
i am
that last bit of
cough syrup you saved
for the day you
got better,
the autosave
on google drive
before your laptop ***** you
and crashes in the middle
of your midterm paper.
I try my hardest
to make you better,
keep you intact,
but i can’t change
why you needed me
in the first place.
I am not
made right,
cookie crumbles
instead of melt in your
mouth
i am hard
to swallow.
151 christening
the back of my throat
while you whimper
after one shot of
strawberry lemonade svedka.
That’s sangria to me, that’s
water
to me.
I promise you
I will teach you how
to chug,
how to make wince
look like wink
look like smooth
waterfall thunder
crashing into gut
as long as you
are willing to open throat.
I am not
batten-down-the-hatches
outdoor basement lock
i am
panic room
all the food and drink
you need in me
i am plentiful
i am enough
sometimes
i am too much
i am the
over drinker the
too ****** the
too much fight
too much love
not enough balance
i am
clumsy
not enough equilibrium
between my ears
maybe that’s why i am
queen of miscommunication
queen of misunderstandings
queen of “can you
say that again? i
didn’t quite hear you.
I am drowning
through waves of
something that looks a lot
like water but it
burns good enough to
quench”
I am
******* disguised as
train wreck
i needed an excuse
to be in the hospital
just to check out
of life for a few days,
lay in bed for a few days
feel too small
to go to work for a few days
because i am
tired of having to act big
seem tall
when i am
small bean
tiny roots
have been my whole life.
But i am
starting somewhere
i am growing
going somewhere
i am
just waiting for
the next rainfall
to wash away these
pesticides.
I am waiting
for the day i become
balanced and
i can stand up without
bumping into some
other clumsy part of me,
i can look at her
and ask her why she’s still
here because
i am
here now.
i am
plentiful
I am
enough.

My mind is nothing but cluttered
and thoughts can't be clearly uttered

I will try to write these lines
as good as
one at a time
'cause I want you to understand
what I can't

These are "truths"
but these are "wrongs"
I've been trying to bend
and I've known all along
they tolerate no force,
they tolerate no intervention

I'm the best at holding on
I'm the best at letting loose-
this time I don't know
which one
to choose...

...But take my hand, anyway
'cause it makes me a little less confused

I am now verging on clear and obscure;
These troubles have your name on them...

If I am sick,
I really suspect I am,
then you are my disease-
I'll do nothing,
I'll let you linger,
my prognosis will be poor
and hell yes!
You'll stay forever...
Or if not, at least until
the day I die
which
I hope
won't come too soon

I know you can't see
the road
I've been walking on
nor the signs
that
I've been ignoring
just to get a glimpse
of your world
and what's in it for me

If doing this makes you
look like a kid in a candy store,
then I'll paint all these lights green,
cross the wrong street,
get a clearer view-
a clearer picture of you,
and convince myself
that I did not *****
the Stop sign for nothing


and now we get to the bottom line:








I am a minor. A little less wine on my sangria..

Let’s go, you and I.
And sweat beneath the African sky
Watch the lions lazing
And the wild dogs playing.  
We can sip Amarula
And listen to the hyenas laugh and cry
As the mythical sunset
Silhouettes giraffes and Acacia trees.

Let’s go, you and I
And walk the streets of old town Barcelona.
Find old timey cafe and luxuriate
In sangria and itty bitty tapas
Stroll by Sagrada and gawp
At Gaudi’s home.
Maybe we’ll stop for some ice cream
Maybe we’ll just go back to the hotel

Let’s go, you and I
And swim the blue blue seas of the Bahamas
Nervously Play with the nurse sharks
Hoping they’re not the other sharks
Take those long walks on those beaches
That everyone likes.
We’ll sit on Jankanoo and drink sky juice
Until we can truly reach the heavens

Let’s go, you and I
And ski the Slopes of the Swiss alps
We can stop at small cabins and drink
heartwarming schnapps
Take trains that slink around mountains
And sprint through white capped forests
We can put snow down the backs
Of each others jackets and
Squeal in furious delight.

Let’s go, you and I.
And squish our way through the streets of New York
Relieved when we can pop into a shop
To escape the crowds.
Necks sore from looking up
Small town people in the Big Apple City
Central Park for pretzels and Snapple
Times Square later, neon addiction sated.
And a boat ride to see lady liberty

Let’s go, you and I
And bare our feet in Balinese temples
Speak to the monks in broken English
And then retire to our curtained gazebo
To indulge in the sins they can’t
We’ll get massages and champagne
Then ride our bikes along pothole
Ridden dirt roads.

Let’s go, you and I
And get Nuevo Chic in London’s west end
We can catch a show in tux and evening gown
Then head to the pub and catch a pint
We can walk the trail, hunt Jack the Ripper
And visit The Tower.
Cross the Thames and maybe
No definitely
Another pint in some quaint little place.

Let’s go, you and I
And lie in bed late on lazy Sunday mornings
I’ll poach the eggs and make the hollandaise
You can put some upbeat daytime jazz on
Then we can go sit in the garden
Under the oak tree and read
Each other poetry
Until it’s much much later
...

when i was ten i discovered these books about summer
it seemed all the chapterbooks were filled with strange stories of girls finding their destiny by the sea as their whole life changed between boardwalk adventures and family urgency, like melodrama in small increments with too much sunscreen
something about one of them specifically stayed with me for years
the cover was of the shore and the sand dollars lined in a row as if waiting to be picked up or maybe had just been put down
something about them gave me the impression that this could be my life
an eternal summer that i didn't have to abandon, the book i didn't have to close, look into the sun and not have to pick my body up from the water
it seemed agreed upon that i could live in a continuous day
nighttime didn't exist and the moon was a name given to my mother's friend
everything was promised warm, my feet would touch pavement while my hair was permanently bleached
but the sunset came and shook my shoulders

2.
i stand in my bathroom
cold and harmless
the window is fragmented so no one can look at your naked body but it makes everything outside look like when you didn't realize you needed glasses and once you did every memory was post foggy
i could be a dying star or a sun brushing its' rays and you'd never know
sometimes my hands are so clean my nails taste like soap and there's no way to go about it but accepting that

3.
there used to be a fire
and if i had to give it a name it would be Frederick
i don't know when it disappeared or how it even started existing
one day someone asked me if i knew how much wholesale toothpaste cost and my feet curled, i bit my lip so hard in fear i would scream until my throat bled
but that didn't happen instead something burst, not a vein but a sentiment
there were theories i used to develop while i went on dinner dates
i remember thinking of what i now reference as the sangria theory
while we sat and ate pasta and i could feel my head drifting while his eyes sank into the bottom of my shirt
i thought maybe all the people that you meet have no chance but a say
all circumstantial until you find something that harvests your attention
until you slip past the underwear and then nothing feels important anymore
was it ever?
you go separate ways, separate directions
as if in fear of finding something too close to whatever it is you're trying to find because then what would be the point of looking?
there was a fire and now there's a glow and i can't tell which one i like more

Lately, I have been transitioning words
Like Palate cleansers, Bayonne,
Sangria instead of writing
A daily poem, sometimes we just have to take a step
Back, and think, I came across this wonderful comedy show
The Neighbors’, which was pilot since 2012,
This show had last for two years: great lines
With some wonderful actors and actresses,

I can related, after feeling so alienated myself
being in this foreign country: Since 1983
I once lived in a small town in New Jersey,
Hiller circle, Red bank another part of New Jersey
(Me) an Island girl felt, like a real out of space Alien
Living amounts those upper class ****** folks:

I only last two years in that small town
my poor pride wouldn’t allowed it…
My pride was stronger than my feelings:
I had grown fond of Sally and Brad,
But, I knew

“Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

I could have been a wonderful poet,
if only I had only taken on this craft seriously,
I love my quiet times on my keyboard,

I never pay much attention to rhyming,
My words are diary entries, to cleanse my palette
De stressing without taking a walk outside into
The Funky low grade city air in New York City:

*Never be afraid to raise your voice for honesty and truth and compassion against injustice and lying and greed. If people all over the world...would do this, it would change the earth

the shakes own my body they make it harder to type so i peck at my keyboard like a ******* animal and i keep smashing the power button every time i hit the backspace and i'm afraid the whole godforsaken thing will turn off. macs arent bad though. i might be okay.

wow this whole ******* thing just went to ****? can i even say that? i'll be ******* honest with you (aside from the avant-garde scene and the nihilistic WOKE poetry ensemble) i really don't know if i can say that or not? i mean when was PC invented? like 2008? *******. that was ten years ago gimme a break.

jesus man the shakes are horrible tonight. they're so bad im really just relying on autocorrect to do everything for me but sometimes it misses and so do i. i could use diction on the mac but then they would have my voice and once apple took o ver the world id just become one of their drones or something.

i know why too. maybe the "substances" im constantly ingesting. (oooh "substances" s cary word ayh right. you're an idiot.)

or maybe its the lack of creativity and originality in everything i see and hear and do? maybe not.

(taking a break to ____________).

all the bugs and trees are talking to me and you know what in not eve n gonna bother with typing at this point so if are still here then good for you,

.... six, no wait, make that, 12 bottles of wine. and some whiskey. and some champagne. and a jug of sangria. and...

it's **:05 as I write this. so if you're awake and reading this then either you're a night-owl or you live somewhere thats not here or there.

i m really truing to see; the shakes off and I think in doing pretty well so i have to just keep it up. right?

im going to shrink down and sleep with my succulent. tomorrow will be where hell is waiting.

******* come in early. 2-3 AM. i always wake up right about then.+