..when endings are more numerous than beginnings.

"My life might be a little bit boring, but at least it is mine---not some assembly line, second hand, hand-me-down life."

Ergo, ego...

Trite, despite common curiosity, when friends ensure that they understand what is in store for each other; oh, sure there's depth, and insight, and hindsight but under the weight of relationships all we ever are is in other folk's eyes...and bright eyes wish only to light up laughter, illuminate short comings, grievances and downfalls. Alike the midnight sun, we know no other rotation, it's the same corrupt scenery within our heads. What's in our heads is only notation, there's no grand eclipse, simply a chest half emptied of useful tidbits. All we ever have is experience, pinned down by circumstance, being shit upon by an ego.

Do you understand this?

I am so fucked up now that I must be in love, some how. I am so fucked up now that I must feel for you, some how.

How I wonder...

Her head, a near derelict road with two vessels seemingly leaving at the next junction.
How to contend with such a grand portal?
The next left and they're leaving.
A simple recount of who has already left and who will be leaving shortly leaves her basic functions defunct.
How to travel down a dividing line, lethal weapon, a mere mortal unaware of danger?

"What's going on, dad?

"..storm warning tonight after midnight. I'm trying to decide whether to get out of here and beat the weather...
..or, what?
Stay and suffer."

We depart, I with heart take part and fall from you without a tear, so that you may understand my fear when I guess that I had meant what I had said when I had said that I would wait for this, and with an apparent hiss of the hydraulics the train's momentum alone will take me home.
That day you drove me, it seems I trust you, even in sleep. Last night we drank and it wasn't easy but we got by -- it hurt me to be put on stand by, to simply watch and let you cry.
I looked through squinted eyes, alike a looking glass, as so that I would not forget. I guess I will wait until it's too late, if you let me.
"forget me not," I'd written on your bedroom mirror in make-up, and if you'd have awoken sooner you'd have seen the illustration clearer but instead your mother had wiped it most of the way off and left me a mess, on your sofa, alone, on the other-side of your life; where vanity exists.

It's different when you're lonely.

You met me at a very unfortunate time in my life, a quarter past four in the morning, when all the bars have long closed their doors. With open eyes and closed hands tight, we embrace only to embark on our own separate trails, alone: pleasentaries are shared "I'm glad I met you, m'dear"; and we part on a weeknight with only our dumb luck to blame as we become aware that there's no chance we'll run into each other again in the morning light, with our memories fresh from our impaired beer and street lamp sight. Instead we endure our responsibilities, dead end jobs or the friendships we wrap ourselves up in, tight. All of which will bear no fruit sufficient to replenish the energy that their labors require...until the weekend, when we've forgotten what it was that binded us together in the first place. Was it Dylan, Dalton, Neil or Young that you had said you couldn't imagine living without? Was it Ginsberg or Camus that you had said would often keep you up at night? We're Kerouac and Bukowski simply drunken romantics or in turn, misogynistic pigs? Was Feminism even apparent and did I agree to disagree, confusing myself for a charlatan or did I simply roll over, recognising and supporting a healthy passion or was it more that I eventually surrendered and gave in?

..and this is a big city once you've forgotten somebodies name.

I may never see you again, stranger. I hope our paths one day will cross and that I will remember your face, at least...I'll try my hardest to remember what I'm certain has already been forgotten.

I often worry when there is nothing to worry about...I guess It's different when you're helpless. And when there is something to worry about, I get drunk.

I don't wanna grow up.

Downtown is dying, we are devoid of creative illustration or imaginative design and our possessions no longer amount satisfaction; they rarely reside beside us or show us any positive signs of pining for our company.
Envy stagnates centre stage, and our perspectives are skewed because our lives never seem to strike on the pages so we simply flick through these streets once more, until we dog ear another local bar, a beat up venue, an abandoned park or parking lot. We wish to create no new memories or opportunities, please. Let us instead worry about what has slipped from our grasp, however irrelevant, like so much trash; the past is a grotesque animal.

This city could only be described as a hub for inactivity, anxiety is becoming increasingly fluent throughout blood lines and associates or for as far as we can see beyond the ocean glare; but do we dare to jump?
Dreams of destruction, imaginations will run wild at the thought of exile, we reenact many traditional aspects of banishment with vim and vigor -- we've been flirting with the foul act in full swing throughout our years --- yet we are unwilling to shake the relationships we supposedly despair.

We are not willing to see the future although we do claim that we would perhaps like to be free of this monotonous life; the kicking and screaming vices we drag through the day to day and every damn night.

Only drunk over drinks do we truly realise that our once treasured accumulations are now our kicking and screaming vices...and we laugh together with the knowledge that our kicking and screaming has became our vice. We'll let ourselves forget this by morning: on waking up in a strangers bed...