http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQ-XVTzBMvQ&feature=relmfu

How do I demand, I demand it of you.

How do I know, I do not know you.

I do not know because the great wide

Disease of infested worm,

Of white livid worm

Inhabits me.

It breeds in me,

In my mutt’s lower belly

In my undigested

Sex, the back seat pick up,

The Volvo I loved at 18,

The drive in I sat on a lap for at 20,

This creature

This being

It is the accent

Of the reverberated

dance of the collective minds

Because I do not believe

In it,

Or you,

Or really the power of me

At all.

Because there are still dogs barking

And hay to be raked

And because I am never free,

No never free

Unless my hands are tied.

"It was a day like a slow-motion video of twilight.  Uneventful, to put it mildly.  The lead gray of the sky mixed ever so slowly with black, finally blending into night.  Just another quality of melancholy.  As if there were only two colors in the world, gray and black, shifting back and forth at regular intervals."

"dance dance dance" Haruki Murakami

Rifle

I spent 4 hours in someone else's red ant infested garden today.
It was the type of infestation you could use to teach children about peripheral sight or
the possibilities of giving someone laser eye visions.
The kind where one ant quickly turns into an entire colony
of workers
with tiny construction caps
in a 5 second time-span.
I re-learned the names of Indian bitters
and forgot the names of their gods.
I heard 18 voices in my head,
quite a spectacular showing,
making true contact a sport with my own board game rules.
A neighbors dog broke the boundaries of
our home
(git, git! we yelled, I threw sticks and stones).
He'd spotted a bitch's smell
and didn't ask but took to take her as his lady-friend.
I thought, that's funny, dog's need dick, too.
What great excitement,
herding those chickens into safety
trying to save them from a flirting dog's teeth rifle death
injection.
So much can happen all day,
in a farm,
on the can,
scooping hay or rolling around in it.
I heard 18 voices in my head today and there is nothing
quite like burying them in your own grave.
I like a constant clit tickle, my fingers hover there all day while working
just to remind myself to fire off wired concepts through the dirt,
like those ants whose homes I uprooted with one fell swoop.
It is possible,
to produce 20 foot statues of idols
for your people to worship
and then to send them out into the ocean
only to begin again,
the real celebration,
where no one can remember your gods namesakes.

The flight of immigrant birds,
one always turned around,
"You're going the WRONG WAY!"
But clouds pull by wings,
eyes lead by clear distant sounds of shotguns,
my one reminder that,
shhhhhhhhh,
people are near.
I thank the hen that gives me egg,
the pub-
let beer go to my head.
Sitting at the wooden gear,
I slipped but
gulped the smells right in.
Like my dog in heat,
they must have sensed me from miles away,
my boots
the casing for manure.

this movie was so good and awesome and I wish I was that awkward so I could get away with more of my actual awkwardness!

and this man is a new desire because I am really just a 15 year old....I have also downloaded a bunch of steve martin books on tape for my trip because I am a 23 year old.

I am a serious person,

Like the sounds of feet scrapping together

Or the quietly moaned stifling my words.

If we all grew up in nice neighborhoods,

The world would be a more productive globe.

We would discover how to destroy what we see,

How to paint impressionably by the left side of a tree at night,

Inhabiting the lamp posts bulbs.

I am not negative,

Just creation

In its dirtiest mud filled piles of forms,

Addicted to masturbation,

To hitting the send button,

To cancelling accidental texts.

I am your cum stained panties,

Your peers self respect.

I am your grabbing hands and

The language between your toes.

I am your afternoon whiskey water pick me up,

The hardened specks of rodent digestion.

I am your Friday night girl and Saturday’s rejection.

I am my father’s daughter,

My sister’s friend,

My dog’s human mother.

I am, I am

The sorry sap who wrote one too many

Love letters.

I am the projection of your questions about life

 like the bird seed you throw on your

Million dollar homes at night.

The vomited mass of nutrients you wish you hadn’t eaten

Or the booze I consumed that you wish you had.

You are what I am

In my wildest dreams,

Where ex-lovers send you unopened letters

You’ve been waiting to receive.

They tell you it’s not you it’s only

What you perceive.

I am the harrowing avoidance of phone calls,

Of planned visits,

Of 1am sex.

I am the persistent itch of biting bugs

And the temporary scratch.

I am, what you are,

What you are not.

I am, what I am,

What I am.

Is someone else’s poem,

Is a drug fiend’s autobiography,

Is my sleepy eyes at night when the nostrils burn off their arc like dance to the fires.

 What I am,

Is this. 

Is the only thing no one else can know how,

Of locking what you couldn’t chain,

Finding the end someway in the somehow.

I just legitimately don't care about the internet.
I don't care about what someone’s presence is,
but I care cuz it makes me anxious.
I used to think the internet made me anxious because
I was jealous,
or confused about me
on the internet,
but now i'm thinking that i get anxious because it terrifies me.
it terrifies me in the same way that dj's are no longer called dj's, but performers,
and that i should inherently know this.
the same way that people make funny pictures out of lines and solid colors
and add words
or an ironic (i'm sorry , just old)
image

Or don’t use capital letters (like now)
and think it's funny.
I don't understand,
i didn't grow up in a pack of wolves,
or in complete isolation
(but maybe that’s why-an outlier)
but i don't want to live in a world where
my peers care more about the incredible SHIT PILE of nothing and it’s irrelevance to breathing,
or loving.
I didn't grow up on 4chan, i just learned what reddit was a few months ago,
and I get it,
it's useful, it's good
But there is BETTER.

Haven’t we all felt better?

I want to know, how much time is spent monitoring what photos of self go up on facecrack?
were you born "cool" or did you spend a lot of time wiki'ing useful references and associations to life situations you haven't ever lived through?
Does anyone even know what they actually like anymore?

Does anyone actually like themselves anymore?

I'll forget your name as you're telling it to me
so I sure as shit won't quote trotsky
and then talk about lenin like they ever personally gave me any wisdom.

my mother is constantly calling my name out
and showing me slews of men on match.com and lesbian women she's turning down on okcupid

"you're not interested, are you? 31, gay, cute"

my mother lives an online life more similar to you, my peer, than to me.

and instead of  her being around making me feel like a 23 year-aged 5 year old,
I am really glad,

really really glad
that it is a human annoyance,
a voice,
that i am home right now
reading treasure island,
wishing i was reading something better
but not really wishing that at all
behind a door propped open a little
and my dogs whining
and my mother whining,
instead of being in an entire room of
people like you

 trapped inside a

living
fucking
chatroom.

I will always be a sad woman, or a good woman,
or nothing in between.  I am always tired,
always doing the wrong things to make right.  I am redundant.
I am unaware of how to not be so, when sight only has blips of relevance.
I think,
this is all OK.
I think, this is all I know, and have developed.
I suppose so.
I suppose it is OK to be wrecked,
not forever,
but maybe.
OK to be distrustful, of disgusting consistencies,
which make us human
in the most furious ways.
We can take comfort, that we know the ways
to procreate,
and decide against or for it.
Choice.

Sterile fountains,
drain easily from faucets to suburban mouths.
The judgements we raise,
with advil and fish food to grow over pains.
I write an empty check, fill in my mother's premature death,
all just to speak with you.
I cannot write words to cover my open wounds.
An asshole rips,
my vaginal walls gaping.
All these little things,
we participate in.
Wipe from front to back,
stare at my shit.
Some man stops to inform me he served his time in the navy,
that his wife still smells good to him after all these years.
I fall in love with my city again,
and will want to blow it up by next week.
I smoke my 10 cigarettes at night
and think how I'll be dead by 30 if I'm lucky.
Maybe reverse my age, shave my head,
and watch the security guard flirt with her perimeter.

Low Tide


I walked over there knowing he would try and penetrate me.  Every time I've seen him over the past few years, he gives a longing stare at some piece of my body, making it feel inanimate.  I got the largest bottle of wine I could, the liquor store troll tries to force mint oreos on me, again.  It's a joke that's lost its funny.  My shorts feel silly, like my thighs are merging together, begging to feel.  I try to figure out how to use the call system to get inside.  Wonder why I can never figure out technology, even old, simple machines.  Call him to let me in, finding myself laughing that he'd know why I was there after seeing a wine bottle the size of my left leg. 

"Be right out"

he said.

I think about maybe just going home, maybe I should stop trying to get fucked just to see the other person's reactions, if they look alive, experiencing something I just can't right now.

He is so small still,
in the elevator, I try not to stare.
The first few minutes I'm with someone
(anyone)
I need some time to adjust.  The first few sentences are always half said, mildly unintelligible animal sounds.
"They-
get- you get papers delivered here?"  My mouth doesn't move the way I want it too.
He tries to look me in the eyes and I nervously turn my head to stare at the elevator's left side wall.

"Yeah, guess I do."

I don't know what to talk about, so I babble
-almost manic.

I tell him I was almost fired, curse every other word.

I have been in his spacious apartment for 10 minutes and have already finished a generous glass.

He tells me he's sorry dinner's not ready, but I don't care.  I hadn't expected it to be.
I sit by his kitchen window and comment on the things I see outside. 

A train goes by that looks like cargo.  I have always been fascinated by forms of transportation.  I've often driven to the airport just to sit inside it. 

I try not to think about what that may mean about me.  But then I think about it a lot anyway.

We sit on the floor and eat, he's on some special diet because he cares what his body feels like.
I tease him about that because I've never had that concern.

"Sorry.  I think I spilled some tomato sauce on your rug..."

He hardly speaks, stares at my lips, and agrees with me about how depressing it is to have gotten ourselves in the position of having full-time jobs and his being in debt from school.

"Are my lips purple or something?  You keep glancing at them."

He laughs, "Well, yeah.  They are." and his eyes droop,
-is he trying to be sexy?  "But that's not why I'm staring at them."

"Oh."

I don't care.

I haven't eaten anything all day and the sudden protrusion my stomach's feeling makes me want to explode a little, then I wonder if I could.

"I'm gonna smoke again, is that OK?"

"Let me open the screen for you.  Want more wine?"

I smoke and have another full glass in my hand.
He stands by me, almost hovering.

I end up talking a lot about fucking, while simultaneously realizing how disgusted I am by it and not sure why I do this trick with people I may want to sleep with.

It doesn't actually matter what you are trying to express to someone about sex, because once you mention to word, some immediate desire is realized in the frontal lobe.

This both is, and is not, my intention.  This is a test of other people's stupidity.  A prediction can be easily made.

"I don't know what I'm talking about.  I just think...I mean, you just always wanted to have sex.  And I honestly just get sick of it.  It's nice to be alone, to fuck when you want."

"Yeah, I actually wanna fuck right now."
"What?"
"I mean, I wanna fuck right now.  I think we're good enough friends to be able to just do that."
We are not friends.
I almost cry right there.
I almost say no and then realize there's no point.
How can this man who was so in love with  me for so long, unrequited for the past 2 years, be so willing in his emotional psyche to not care how he'll feel after not fucking me in 2 years. 
We are all the container.

"OK, yeah.  Let's do it."

His roommates door is open and the lights are on.  I think again, how it doesn't matter and I probably won't make noise because he used to love how loud I was.
Music is on, I don't know what it is but I'm glad.

He kisses me, and I push him away.

"Hi."

I say, trying to make him realize how we used to do this out of love.

He doesn't seem to get or care about the connection and puts my legs around him.

Once, a long time ago, I had wrapped my legs so tight around him and he has screamed out,
"Those leggssssss!'".  Now, he had placed them there.

It was quick, and I wanted it from behind.

After, I put my head on his chest, but hovered, I knew I would cry.

He got up and pissed and I went in after and shut the door,
pressed on my cheeks hard.
Squeeze out my little pain.

When I came back out the light was on and I searched for my clothes.
He started talking about liking sex better without a condom.
I dressed and said I wanted to smoke.

He followed me to the window and we talked more about nothing.
It felt like nothing had happened and I guess it really hadn't.

I had to get out of there.

"Hmm, I gotta head out.  Thanks for the food...and the fuck."

He laughs and hugs me.

"Love ya.  This was fun."
"Yeah. Walk me out."

At the door, he mumbles something I can't remember and I feel like screaming.
Everything is so stupid.

Walking home, I take the alleys and cry. 

I write a letter in my head to a friend I used to sleep with who was sort of sad like me,

"Do you ever feel that everything is so sick and masochistic?  I think we live for mischief.  We live and then we get bored and get ourselves into trouble just to do the same shit over again."

I get home and don't feel like crying anymore.

I pour a glass of whiskey,
sit on my window sill,
and watch cars go by.

you pulled, you pulled
the tide that puts fear in my toes.
my ocean
it laughs at me
the same way you do,
your face squinched back
letting me lose you
what i never had in me.

"and I laugh, I can still laugh, who can't laugh when the


whole thing

is so ridiculous

that only the insane, the clowns, the half-wits,

the cheaters, the whores, the horseplayers, the bankrobbers, the

poets...are interesting?"
..............................
..............................
................................
"a quarter rolls across the floor, and I remember all the faces


and

the football heroes, and everything has meaning, and an editor

writes me, you are good

but

you are too emotional

the way to whip life is to quietly frame the agony,

study it and put it to sleep in the abstract.

is there anything less abstract

than dying day by day?"




Empire of Coins-Buke

*Thanks professor.

I have not been able to write for weeks.  It's shameful, a shame.

However.



Bird call,
the family's open mouths, broken seams.
Sister,
warm in our slow speeches
and our sun's burning.
Ca caw,
they see the same professionals,
a youth's glare a fading confession.
Sister,
we confess too violently our sins.
Always the same givings,
advice crawls up our building
to bodies-
the lack of connection.
A constant drone on the phone line.
Who gave us this sadness?
A reason for chills in late July,
creating the same weather-scape in cities apart.
Purr,
a biting wit,
the trees stare back,
the grass looks always the same.
Trends fall over our shoulders,
draperies of inabilities
(do not fit in).
Who gave us our sadness,
when only the green earth gives,
what other people have taken away.

This is the most beautiful series I've ever read.  I know what to do with my small pot of gold once I get freedom again.

Having it Out with Melancholy

1FROM THE NURSERY

When I was born, you waited

behind a pile of linen in the nursery,

and when we were alone, you lay down

on top of me, pressing

the bile of desolation into every pore.

And from that day on

everything under the sun and moon

made me sad -- even the yellow

wooden beads that slid and spun

along a spindle on my crib.

You taught me to exist without gratitude.

You ruined my manners toward God:

"We're here simply to wait for death;

the pleasures of earth are overrated."

I only appeared to belong to my mother,

to live among blocks and cotton undershirts

with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes

and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.

I was already yours -- the anti-urge,

the mutilator of souls.

2BOTTLES

Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,

Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,

Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.

The coated ones smell sweet or have

no smell; the powdery ones smell

like the chemistry lab at school

that made me hold my breath.

3SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND

You wouldn't be so depressed

if you really believed in God.

4OFTEN
Often I go to bed as soon after dinner

as seems adult

(I mean I try to wait for dark)

in order to push away

from the massive pain in sleep's

frail wicker coracle.

5ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT

Once, in my early thirties, I saw

that I was a speck of light in the great

river of light that undulates through time.

I was floating with the whole

human family. We were all colors -- those

who are living now, those who have died,

those who are not yet born. For a few

moments I floated, completely calm,

and I no longer hated having to exist.

Like a crow who smells hot blood

you came flying to pull me out

of the glowing stream.

"I'll hold you up. I never let my dear

ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.

6IN AND OUT

The dog searches until he finds me

upstairs, lies down with a clatter

of elbows, puts his head on my foot.

Sometimes the sound of his breathing

saves my life -- in and out, in

and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .

7PARDON

A piece of burned meat

wears my clothes, speaks

in my voice, dispatches obligations

haltingly, or not at all.

It is tired of trying

to be stouthearted, tired

beyond measure.

We move on to the monoamine

oxidase inhibitors. Day and night

I feel as if I had drunk six cups

of coffee, but the pain stops

abruptly. With the wonder

and bitterness of someone pardoned

for a crime she did not commit

I come back to marriage and friends,

to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back

to my desk, books, and chair.

8CREDO

Pharmaceutical wonders are at work

but I believe only in this moment

of well-being. Unholy ghost,

you are certain to come again.

Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet

on the coffee table, lean back,

and turn me into someone who can't

take the trouble to speak; someone

who can't sleep, or who does nothing

but sleep; can't read, or call

for an appointment for help.

There is nothing I can do

against your coming.

When I awake, I am still with thee.

9WOOD THRUSH

High on Nardil and June light

I wake at four,

waiting greedily for the first

note of the wood thrush. Easeful air

presses through the screen

with the wild, complex song

of the bird, and I am overcome
by ordinary contentment.

What hurt me so terribly

all my life until this moment?

How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird

singing in the great maples;

its bright, unequivocal eye.
Jane Kenyon

i like my body when it is with your by E. E. Cummings


i like my body when it is with your

body. It is so quite a new thing.

Muscles better and nerves more.

i like your body. i like what it does,

i like its hows. i like to feel the spine

of your body and its bones, and the trembling

-firm-smooth ness and which i will

again and again and again

kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,

i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz

of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes

over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,



and possibly i like the thrill



of under me you quite so new

It is a birthday.  I guess it's mine.  I don't care much but I got flowers and that's a beautiful thing.

I have learned this weekend, 2 things:

1. Do not go out in Fells unless you have a death wish and want to die at the hands of horny teenagers disguised as "men".
2. Interview with the Vampire is the most homoerotic movie ever.  Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt raise a child together, cum together and then Mother and Daughter kill Papa in a violent rage.  Bravo, film.

"When totally disgusted with the human race I become a social drinker."
-Lets Make Love

too many movies in one day but no reason to stop.

I don't know why but this makes me laugh.

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377

I woulda married you Mr. Thomas.

In our city,

faces stay familiar

like the face of a clock.

The handicapped race

wheel chaired,

up a paved park road

and the public assumes

gun fire.

In our city, no one is from there

but all our roots grow here.

Sex is a family sport,

with 6 degrees of separation.

We make music that vibrates off the contradictions,

an assimilation of the images the neighborhoods create.

Bowlegged athlete I am,

to pine to leave

or try to stay,

as this city has taught us,

it's all the same.

I have been waking up everyday at 5am.

Downloading too much music,

while my computer crashes.

All the sudden the dark night hits,

like my failed sobriety

after so many nites like this.

A snail,

a ham,

thanksgiving dinners.

The way my father rubs his hands on mesquite chicken.

The flies live in swarmed communes in my apartment,

telling me terrible lies.

I've heard some have as many as 6 eyes.

I flap my wings,

pretend to be something similar to them,

but in the late afternoon

I find myself

swatting that broom,

and the dog keeps on with her barking.

"...the desire to have all your options open and never close a door behind you is very American. ..the belief that you should be able to make any choice at any time. We consume commodities, lifestyles, and now identities with the avidity of jackals with one finger on the remote control and another on the index to our crotch...We feel triumphant in the voyeurism...Finally, all our various and assorted lifestyles, conflated sexual orientations, and gender identities become just another tidy item for consumption, reproduction, and mass-marketed self congratulation."

-The Testosterone Files

Wine Ramblin' 101

I ranted on last night about how no one can really trust one another because....

we are constantly vacillating between these morals we hold so highly to be truth yet at the same tie,

on some level we realize how nothing we do has any sense or basis in reality because it is all meshed up in these morals, these morals which we spend our whole lives trying to identify the origin of.

How do we find communication within this violent sphere of our minds?

We spoke of trust, not the trust of fidelity, which is also not concrete, but of the trust of someone being there for you, on that fucking "path" with you.

Trust is a word we want to box in so badly, we base entire relationships on this concept,

but i don't know if the mind is capable of such a concept, seeing as that is really all the word is in the first place: conceptual.

I am not sure how I would redefine these terms, these words,

but my struggle between this all seems to have caused the most confusion within my friendships and relationships.

So maybe it is just me, who is the confused one.

"everything is obliterated only to begin again...We too live in a universe everywhere strangely similar to the original...the imminence of death-they are already purged of death, and are even better than in life; more smiling, more authentic, in light of their model, like the faces in funeral parlors."

Bbb
aud
rill
lard

A Sleepless Night

April, and the last of the plum blossoms
scatters on the black grass
before dawn. The sycamore, the lime,
the struck pine inhale
the first pale hints of sky.
An iron day,
I think, yet it will come
dazzling, the light
rise from the belly of leaves and pour
burning from the cups
of poppies.
The mockingbird squawks
from his perch, fidgets,
and settles back. The snail, awake
for good, trembles from his shell
and sets sail for China. My hand dances
in the memory of a million vanished stars.

A man has every place to lay his head.

Philip Levine

One old soul,
carrying the new in its beak.
Two old souls
and the cardinals droppings,
the hidden mouths they flirt to feed.
A speck among the white blossoms
growing into puddles
to try and not fall below
the tree's linings.
A street of rivered vomit,
they hold wing-ed,
a feathered thumb entwined
to keep dry,
like me.

Hm. two Mules for sister sara. me being in the mood for clint eastwood was a good start but the nun better change her mind about being married to jesus or the whole movie's already ruined. haaa.

also, shirley mclaine was never hot.

there were so many reasons i could have cried,

and not sure too much of any.

All I can do is watch comedy,

drink red

and laugh laugh

at the way the sun stays up starting now till later than it's felt like in fucking years.

this is ridiculous

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N5YHb7ectAY

Handled thigh
among a humid cold.
I thought in tricks,
accomodating your dead arrival.
It's been 7 years in our tongue's calculations,
you pushing me here to be a part of the slit
through his hair.
A watering hole,
a landing pad,
a place many fingers must slowly reach around to.
This structure is larger than my determined mass,
the rooms grow nostalgic before the past gains recognition.
Handled thigh,
I try to let that hold me.
Handled thigh,
I felt touched for the first time in the way
of not ever
threatening what
I cannot produce.

O

M

j

e

s

u

s//

get well soon

s

t

u

b

b

orn

fuck.

"Be a philosopher, but, amidst all your philosophy, be still a man"

Hume

I imagine the spots on your back leaping into my drinking water.
Your biceps sneaking into my home at night, breaking all the cabinets hinges.
Your rounded babies bottom leaving hairs on my bathroom floor.

I imagined the many things you must have done,
while realizing now, that I am unmoved, standing over emptied spaces.

I look for you so I can blame you for all these
tiny destructions.
The places you should be
have been echoing the emptiness
like records,
broken,
they go on and on.

The underground man plunges himself into uncomfortable situations; he feels as though they are the only way to experience real life.

He wants to be admired by those he disdains, he is an egoist.

This experience of detriment and loftiness, creating a "delicious suffering".

It has taken me 2 years to finally get the guts to read this. I wish I had read it before...it could have prepared me for the past year of my life!

There was this one night,

no there were many nights,

where I let my dick get the best of me

my nose get the sense of me

and it reminded me of driving a car

for the first time in months.

How the back lights look like beetles,

begging and wondering why I look the same way.

And when I spend those many nights,

dark on sauce,

the reverberation of thought

you bastards never tried too hard for

I laugh to myself

as you tell me what a whore am I!

"Fat tits"

too much too fit,

I'll make you into art;

all that shit you

simple

worried moths

squeeze out.

"Thinking about you
I got on the bus
and paid 30 cents car fare
and asked the driver for two transfers
before discovering
that I was
alone."

-Brautigan

The only thing left are my cigarretes,
not even a stained canvass in winters first breath.
I breed in the gutteral burn of a strangers chest,
the madman, I am,
a booze hound for vacancies,
a florescent shine to my face,
I did not recognize it today.
The last time paint lingered on my skin
was before the haunting awareness
of scetching unanimated objects,
to make them faint together
a dance they make,
before this madman, I am,
told me to wake.

"we never really discover anything but one event following another"
"even if god did exist, it would make no difference"

throat on fire, belly full of grease.
Ouch.

hahahahha

why can't I do anything involved with technology?

this is you.

"These are MY words,

those are yours"

the possession of the handicapped

the bulbous bruised

I give myself the fight back against his frightened sickness.

His easy tears somehow my forgotten instigations

the body makes with imminent pain.

You pain me

so I place you

behind sprains and old injury made to heal on it's own.

The two times I broke your flesh, I meant it

as it was meant to kill me

to realize how much it hurts

to watch thinness transform into your stretching skin,

as I have known

I have spoken

as it does happen.

It does

and it did.

And I break my hands on your words once again.

Oh fuck.

I've not learned my lessons yet.
I'm going to begin searching for professional hermit jobs on craigslist.
Hermitism. Condition? Profession? Real word?