Smells like clay rain and copper patina, fresh possibility and old dust.
Gentle giants stroll across the sky, swaddling it with their great arms the color of pigeon feathers.
Sometimes,
the wind catches your breath in your throat and takes it away leaving you gasping, a teasing prank.
Speckles of rain dot my face, wind brushes through me and combs my body, drawing plumes of smoke that weave into a cocoon, weave a mystery, weave a tapestry of burnished dreams and cool wonder.

Nobody can't get hurt. Noone can offend Nobody.
Nobody is perfect. Nobody knows everything.
Nobody doesn't have to exist.
(Nemo is another name for "no-man")

You say that you love me
and then you change your mind
You say that you hate me
and then you change your mind.
If I could change as fast as you
maybe I wouldn't get left behind
But I'm too slow to change my heart
always ending up on your bad side.

Sometimes my soul dreams of impossible movements. Desiring, frustrated, to contort like the colors in a glass marble or a tongue of fire or like the currents in the water.

I'm gonna fall recklessly in love
yeah it hurt last time
but I'm going to do it again
do it the same
don't change a thing
Throwing my whole weight into you
to see if you'll collapse
Can you take it?
Take me at my worst?
If I make you uncomfortable,
that's just who I am
I'm counting on you
Don't let me down
Not that you could, in all your flawed grace
Unless you let me go.
But that's how it goes, it's over now.
Still, I'm gonna fall recklessly in love
do it again
do it the same
and not change a thing

I never know what to say in these situations
and then I say too much.
You said that you preferred the silence
and I knew that I'd fucked up.

Take
   very
      shallow
        breaths.
         
Someone
  might
     hear 
         you.
         
Sitting collecting the dust of eyes, reach out a hand and grasp a footnote fluttering through the air shyly.
Smile at the good news. Life is worth living after all.
I am a passionate loser. I don't know what I'm passionate about, but I can feel it.
The purpose of my illness is not to discover meaning but to hide it in a way that makes it new.
I look down and close my eyes, nodding my head. Underneath my irises, the concept of a table wafts on my fingers, light and filmy and gauzy like tissue paper floating in the air on top of my fingers. It's amusing to see reality deconstructing itself, hovering over my eyes like a simulation desperate to prove itself real. My heart rate is just another piece of data about a deteriorating system counting down into planned obsolescence. I smile, because I can, I can still experiment with my facial muscles that is stiff and hurts but somehow registers as pleasure to others.
Words. Did you like those words? They're just that -- fucking words. You can make them mean so much more than they really do. And what they really mean is that I am very sad and alone.
I have the luxury of hating myself, and I have it in spades hoarding anger instead of any commodity and when the price tanks I amass a monopoly on self-hate bought out of spite and the hope that with a little artistic refinement it will have value. This garbage heap mountain of emotion that I rest upon.
Examples: You are the black leaking from my fingertips, you are the smile that creeps onto my face at the scene of human tragedy, sweep me into the crook of your arm and crush me into dust swirling like ash motes around the fire in your heart. Does that work?
Every soul hides a poet.
Every poet hides a soul.
Heavy eyelids make me dumb.

... this year. What a terrifying proposition, to choose my path, carved from head to toe and analyzed on an an-atomic level by an omniscient butcher. Heh, it's just another year.
The key to perfection is to misalign the details so gruesomely that they begin to tessellate into your warped new worldview so that the appearance of trush becomes appeasing--appealing. But iven that the presence of ugly objectivity often disrupts our best wishes, the best suicide we can commit is to accept the lead bullet in our mouth as proof of life, the ugliness of perception, the duality of sight, and ultimately a way to kill our most personal and cherished fantasies.

Intoxication -- we deliberately throw ourselves out of control to see what will occur when the hidden bedrock takes over -- get to the roots and pull out my wisdom teeth, there's still more foundations to erode.
Make the world soft for a newborn babe; yet you wonder why your worldview is tilted. Living with rose-colored glasses, we could all use a sober spell.
I'll keep you down, you look so cute without anywhere else to go.
I overextended my hand
reaching out for you
but you were gone.
I overextended my hand
reaching out for you
but you were gone.
_
Call it foolishness on my part, learning how to offer without offering all of myself
 A gift, from behind walls, giving away (throwing away) what won't hurt too much to lose.
_
Thanks for not being there when I needed you. Now I can write out my confessions in invisible ink.

Let it go
  it's like dreaming
    when you're asleep
      your eyes move to foreign beats
      
Writing will not save me
Reading will not save me
Music will not save me
Eating will not save me
Thinking will not save me
Action will save me.
Let's fill up the club so we can all feel lonely. I can't hear shit, feel more comfortable confused.
The difference between an absurdist and a suicide is a sense of humor.