..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...

"If you don't love me, I'm sorry...

I'm alive, but a different kind of alive than the way I used to be..."

Heaven forbid I should miss your company calling. Saying, simply; it's been a while since I've known disrespect...or your blood shot eyes, the map of your hold steady palm --- your frame blowing, brisk and shaking in the wind -- I question if your skin and bones have been out all night. You approach with a certain sadness in your eye and from this familiar sight alone I can tell you've been sleeping with the stars again tonight.

I can see you from a window, looking at another window, I am distracted by your display only until a buzzer sounds and I am confronted by an unexpected but familiar voice.
Calm down, I repeat to both parties, you didn't wake me; come up.

Keeping out of sight of the precession of shallow minds is essential as a fleeting glance goes a long way in a city built on insecurity at this time of night.

We could be crazy, they'll pay for their mistakes, surely...and maybe we won't feel so lost quite so quickly...so quiet, so quick, we've reach an understanding.
The wick didn't fall quite so quickly once removed from the bad tempered weather.
Let's stay inside, tonight, where a flame burns bright and all the while, we're still standing together; you no longer hold me...unlike you, I'm no longer sleeping alone.

Love loud, don't lose loud.

Both of us must suffer this same unbearable ache with an unforeseen end, we await the time and date your heart and mind awake. This day is coming, our calendars are ticking and their clocks are turning. If we don't hang them, they surely can not hang themselves. Let us be proud of their pride.
Rising from the tomb that was created for the organs that we require, we wait: attending his wake, I want to hold your hand and kiss your troubles asunder and on the daily basis I tell myself to the drum kick or sound of thunder's clap that I shall not solely act upon plunder, there is no sign of the fates, with which they speak of, conspiring against our adornment: mourning will pass by morning.
They may wonder but it is timeless, our weakness and there is nowhere I'd rather be, sweetness, than on my way home to be by your side tonight.
I trust you as I trust our sister winter, she reassures me that this, like everything else, will soon come to pass. Let us be proud of her pride.

..and when we rejoice in a common room with drinks and just a couple of friends: spring is here, we'll protest, let it burst and bloom!
How will it feel?

To hold your hand and kiss your troubles asleep, I know that it is not much but I'll say: you mean something to someone and that's nobodies fault.
To hold my hand and kiss my troubles asleep, you'll know that it is not much but you'll tell me that I mean something to someone and that's nobodies fault.
We know that it isn't much but we'll hold hands and kiss even our own troubles to sleep: we mean something to someone and that's nobodies fault. Let us be proud of our pride.

Self built walls, we were lost in translation betwixt Back-Slang and Double Dutch, the difference between our cliques is indifferent now that we're grown up but when we find ourselves as little as knee deep in love we can't help but consider the concept that we're hopelessly fucked up.
The walls we had built from the broken promises of past lovers and friends, I broke down once again but I could only trace that bridge fast enough.
In sleep I wept, whilst I slept you cried and we didn't know any different at the time, I guess it could have been fine but spooked in the face of adversity one time you started the fire that burnt that bridge, throwing any progress we may have made aside. Now, I race it's initial design but plans have been mapped behind walls rebuilt at the face of a bridge redesigned. I resign in the shallow shadows of your mind.
Your walls keep your heart safe from a snare at it's prime, so far so good, the double sided pact that, lest us forget, is as good as too bad too sad. It is as well guarded as your brain to my pine.
I bide my time, now, how I choose because this decision is tragically not mine to make. I can only create the opportunity for you to take; make a plan to love me sometime soon.

You can't have your cake and eat it; to be seen to eat in public.

Run along, kid(s). There are bigger wishes under the sky than a girl that seemingly not only can not be free but can not be lonely at the same time.

Touché, she exclaimed: we will run along, kid, but will you keep up? I got worries in my system and a fault to every piston that you can place your thumb on, with reference or simply give a name to and they wont even gradually stop functioning, let alone shut the fuck up. Alike the corruption that lays in the apples of their, including your, eye...so, don't try and keep me awake at night with your heart's cry or mind's pine, they're doing fine on their own and we don't need you, your comfort zone or the supposed paradise that becomes this debt, regardless of it's prime...ride straight home.

..and you may fly but I can't begin to expect to stick around and mind their crimes. If they shoot you down, I'll be fine to the spectators shy and I will simply ask why in my own time: tormented by the irrevocably incessant drum beat of what could or should have been -- if only your heartbeat, as irregular, didn't win over your peace of mind.

Lived in books; believed in everything...taken a flight.
Strictly hypothetical; alike the demons in her head.
Lived in bars; believe in nothing...started a fight.
Strictly theoretical; alike the ideologies we've bled for.

..so now I'm very, very curious as to what you will say next.

After only a spark: I saw a future in your eyes, after dark I'd derive a dial tone from your afternoon smile, assuming no disguise, I ran my mouth a hundred mile an hour faster than your heart could ever race, even when you felt safe in my embrace whilst being scorned by the highest highs of surmise, jaded cries led by the irony and trite of undetermined but nonnegotiable minds. A truly pleasant surprise encounter.

Have a safe departure, for goodness sake, I'll ride straight home ignoring their many a wave and the sufficient subsequent wake, alone. The lowest lows allow a steady flow of hope that you may follow me home.

..and our enemies will rain from the sky, circuits crashing all around. We are the flood and we will rejoice - - because we believe: our time will come; because we believe...

I should tell you how I think of you. I will one day, again, send my love to you over the fresh desert that our southern region will become.

Do not misunderstand me, I see the desert beauty, but you can not hold a cacti nor so comfortably lie in this sand waste land.

In pushing to prosper and chasing our dreams we’ve forgotten to whisper our lovers to sleep.

We will live beyond our means, destroying our childhood dreams, for I pass my son a torch to burn and not a spade to dig.

"I can wait for you to come...

..as long as I know that you wont."

The prettiest skies are capable of holding a thousand eyes. Why do we shuffle through the lows only to run through the highs? As are the prettiest girls who tell the ugliest lies. We are all capable if made unstable, it seems, of unstitching the fable on the kitchen table at witching hour.

A girl I met; a work of both nature and nurture. Discussed the benefits of snapping a picture of everything beautiful she encountered, as so if anything was to hurt her she could find solace in the pixels. She was no duchess, no; just a mistress to a curious heart--we spoke of love and how life often tore it apart. Building blocks leveled by one hundred centiliters. When I looked to her mind all I saw was a lens, for this reason, as much as she seemed to be willing to depend, she was incapable of holding me--she didn’t make it easy-flattering me as I crawled and clawed myself free: scared beauty is such a tragedy.

A friend of mine with such pain, his medication does something I can’t explain. A man of routine, he wakes, goes to work and then straight back home again as if to dance around disdain. But sometimes in sleep or maybe as little as a day dream, events unfold that are untold, they hold no recognition; they can not be seen. To this day, he holds a camcorder steady and calls it his mission, to crack his case and every night he screams “Deity, let me fall, I am ready.”

Much like the musician in me; they’re both hoping to hell that their instruments hold some kind of truth. We relate; neither of us are ready to drop such an addiction, even if it renders us blind it’s still an addiction, you see: we all hope to die happy by betraying duty with beauty.

I resolve my problems with life on my bike.

"I don't know, I guess maybe I'm drowning...

..and it's always been far to easy for me to just do nothing" he said.

The tape had finished it's 60 minute roll and the red record button had popped up. The sound was unfamiliar. It was almost as if he'd finished something. The final sentence had acted as a perfect alibi. He’d concluded his documentation. He told of fault and blame and ended with a conclusion. Yes, finally he'd achieved a defined end. It's a shame the end result was little more than a sad story of a misspent youth. No, this to was to act as little or no inspiration.
The light bulb flickered twice, being bullied by a moth, only too cut out. The boy dropped to his knees with a crash. The floorboards barely buckled under his hollow and sunken shadow, the noise created had been responsible for the single solitary picture frame hung, falling from the wall. A shatter of glass and once more onto his face, his distortion shifting into his conscious mind now. So afraid of his fears and onto the conclusion that it was always better to black out then beat himself up or brood alone with the spirit of the stairwell. Tired of changing and feeling short changed. He was spent; hands into a fist; it was always an easy escape he would strived for. Out of this house or better still, out of this town...and with one swift swing to the face he was out and that night may as well have not happened. Wipe it clean, or rip it up, start it over. No, a circle allows no progression. However, a circle does allow a certain amount of confidence.

Tomorrow morning's anxiety:

A house of cards has left no space for confrontation. Aware of it's foundation, you lock yourself in a room you've fashioned without my support and still you wonder why it’s door is eventually confronted with a percussion of the knuckles, only to be knocked down. Locks are broken. Hinges are tested and teased from their frame. Try to remember that the truth is simple: you’re loved but love doesn’t secure security...losing all sense of direction. A thousand possible exits by no means constitutes an end. My ability to construct a sentence seems to fade with every damn drink. I never thought I could lose what was once so strong. No, I never imagined this life was possible.

If they give up now then they never had faith. (They wont.)
If they don’t love you now, they never did. (They did.)

'Holding out for things is hard when you’re alone and lost in your consequences. You spend the majority of your life putting things off, the rest you're abusive. Lost faith is rarely regained.' (Them, not you.)

Are we there yet: infinity?

She traced the scars on his arm with a finger, as if rethinking the incisions. He slept sound, the kind of sleep that leaves puncture marks.
They laid on the bathroom floor, both for different reasons, still together. He enjoyed the ideal of baptism while she made the most of absolution. She whispered her beautiful childhood dreams and gullible lullaby words to his ear. In response he lay comatose. It’s said when you’re in a coma you can’t hear the world around you. No, you just hope so much that someone sits with you. She knew this was all she could provide him. He’d told her this was enough, she didn't want to believe him. No, she'd always tried to be something more but ended up feeling a lot less. She'd always felt demeaned by her narcotic rival. Almost as if she’d kept losing the same battle and every time her impression was fading a little more, like she was slowly losing his grip. However, she did find a certain amount of trust in herself on those cold tile nights. Even though it was only her dreams that were dictated, they were enough to keep her going. She always reminded herself that dreams could only ever be dreams. She’d once read that dreams were supposed to be ‘out of this world.’ Yeah, that’s what made them so special. They were something to hold on too. The truth is, impossible should stay that way as things are always better in your imagination.

Start breaking my heart.

We talk of the loneliest eyes, as if to see through them. In a matter of fact way, as if to teach with them and when we speak of your heart, it is as if it was once broken. Well, if it wont fix, then why are you still standing? If we live once to love, then what are you waiting for? Because if we must commit to addiction, then let's not make it narcotic. You'll take my hand, as if to walk with me and then you will fall, but i will reset you, again and over.

"..and if you want to get to know me, you better shut your eyes...

..'cause this face don't tell my story and this body will lead us in the wrong direction."

The words flowered from her mouth as she spoke for him, words so sure, words that couldn‘t hide beneath the bed - words that couldn't hide through-out the woodwork -- beneath the floorboards. “I’ll stop speaking for you if you stop speaking for me.” he screamed. There’s no end to the reply, just get out the butchers knife.

"Open the door, roll out the mat...

..welcome is welcome but you'll take it back.
When I come home."

For instance, this day: we stayed up all night; we saw each other, an imperfection, under a different light.

Nothing can change tomorrow, the hardship that follows, beside: bedside humor, in flight entertainment, table manners, lethal weapon etiquette.

You had driven over simply to prove you we're still alive; drive well, sleep carefully.

"She was the girl in that song...

...and? That's it? She was in a song and that's why she's so famous? I mean, she didn't save a country... or invent something great... or murder someone?
Do you know how hard it is to get yourself in a song? Jesus. You gonna eat the rest of those?
But how could a song make her a legend?
She'd have been a legend with or without that goddamn song."

She possibly has the prettiest eyes but I can not hold them to focus for long enough to tell, so...I yawn, grumble; is it dawn yet in your home town?
In turn, I ask her; girl, where should you be right now?
Who could sleep on this season, I question; and would they keep as tired and busy as a mad old dog?
I can not be taught new tricks as she would like so instead I teach her stubborn and I shy away, everything I know about silence becomes apparent at this time of the day.

Her attitude is both terrible and beautiful, I imagine the way you once or twice may have seen a fully functioning face behind a mask or facade; a feeble device indeed.
This invariably, inevitably, turns me on...and with warm blood flows a miserable interpretation of love, lust or trust.

Damaged goods, raised poorly; I love my family because...