| dewy decimal |
2004-01-03 - 2:44 p.m.
It would be one thing if the air weren't curling in like a womb or a mama's paw. It would be one thing if you weren't leaving behind those voices that had built you and gave you that crazy idea that made you belive that you were someone.
But you are treading through that fog that is so dense that you start to choke on the mystery, the phenomena; the physical fog itself. And you brace yourself for all the wonder you are and you say goodbye to the smell of a summer pool breaking at your chaff elbow; wet and talc-dry, sunny and easter blue. You take leave of the killer whale fog that you may have called home on your mother's supermarket cough on a long forgotten Sunday, age twelve.
Your reading light shuts off. You take deep breath, regain your courage. And you write. you write. you die. and wait. and hope for love, alone, but it comes from somewhere. Managing to find it's way from somewhere. Finding an alibi in faith. And it would certainly be one thing
When you've found thatt it's entirely another.