(couldtcarelessdosntmeanidont)

She seems to be aimless.
Looking around at everything like she was born walking. Beautiful slight and coy. She notices me noticing her and smile's. I tilt sunglasses and smile back outfitted in a slick black jacket. She keeps walking like the previous moment never happened. Maybe shes just playing hard to get. I wonder where shes going. I want to go there too. Find a warm bed settle down into and learn how to love. From the bottom up, instead of just going down. Looking awkward like an airplane crash with out the nesesary tragedy. A spelling mistake that everyone can see.
Oh my how fucking embarrasing. Breaking down that boundry bettween thought and speech. The one that seems to cripple me. I know you know it too cause it's crippled you on one occasion or two. Its the same one that has left me standing in the middle of the street not knowing what to say with no idea what to do.
She looks Russian maybe, european anyway.
I turn my head hoping she will look back and flash me a sexy smile. What more could a boy want? That actress dream. Someone to go about figuring out. Some thing pretty to persue. I miss that companionship that I felt once. I only get it once and awhile and these days and it never seems to stay. Phone's are complicated and they should come with a warning. Pick me up at your own risk. Cause every time I try to place a call there's someone screaming at me on the other end. Is it my fault that I come and go like a whisper? Cause it never seemed to bother me. Eternally restless just out to appreciate this beauty. The kind that lives in humble words but somehow again I stumble over what I meant to say. Language is so curious. So make or break. She usually sleeps with me anyways. We both know this is going nowhere but we make the attempt just to learn. At least thats the way I look at it. Maybe she is different, maybe not. She caught me off gaurd and now horn's are honking and she's long gone. I could go after her but something tell's me I'll see her again. Maybe then I'll have something other then a smile to share. Either way it's not that I don't care it's just the game that I don't try to play. The one that keep's me in the mood to create. Curious and prodding at this life's little quirks and curves.
Insecurity.
I seem to constantly be existing in that space that lover's exist in the first time they decide to go and fuck someone. I'm falling over myself with a bloody nose and leaning on her hair. The key that is, to existing here. Well its just to learn to laugh when you are told your supposed to care. Nobody thinks I'm serious and that's ok with me. Cause when serious goes and hangs itself I 'll be the only on in the room not crying out bloody murder then feeling stupid for saying that it was the end of the world. I'm good with this, here I am standing naked and proud with a quart of tequila in me singing songs with word that I don't remember.
Telling obviously tall tales.
Besides it was always he melody that mattered anyways.

The words in these old blues standards, well they always seem to change.

(autumnhasarrived)

Fall is here.
Its beautiful and cool. A summer's soft whispering rattle, summers warm lips pursed so close to your ears you can feel her breathe. The last cool breath of a lover slowly being laid down to die. A sudden awareness of spinning cycles; lifes like that.
It tends to end where you began or begin where you ended.
Speaking in riddles eloquent and unforgiving. It scolds you with torture and rewards you with joy known only by witness. I walk like the clouds through fallen leaves. Tiny green soldiers gone back to their homeland with the passing of the september wind. The autumn brings it home. It makes me long and feel; like some great hero on an oddessy alone and free. The way this new wind get's behind you. As if it were destiny or fate pushing you on into the unknown with a bare and naked drive.
I can do anything this time of year.
This time of year cigerettes taste different in the cold.
Simple pleasures are accelerated, feathers on bare skin or tears welling up in a moment of weakness. This year it feels ok to feel like me. So tonight I`ll stand on the old locks, forgotten and breathing shades and voices. Tonight I`ll scream out into the chill evening air of the navy dusk and tell the world I`m ready for what it has in store. It has been along time since I felt alive like I do tonight. Sober and clear headed. Wheels turning like the belts on a big block engine, pedal buried until steel touches floorboards.
On my way home I walk slowly along side a stammering creek. In the tangerine glow of the lazy street lamps I watch my own distorted reflection, my skin stretched across bone. It lists and wavers and bends. The old me being dragged like a corpse across stones and sticks. An aincent funeral rite. A decaying mass, smashed and wobbling.
Once he was me but I will never be him again.
Leave me out, expose me to these elements and weather away any memory of what I was. A weak child that refused to grow up. The wind licks the back of my neck and I quiver and quake. This incarnation a last midnight excorsisim sharing a freshly lit smoke with the infant winter wind. A suckling funeral pyre for an old dead mate. I reach down and pull a thin peice of concrete from the trampled brush. It echos like time splashing in a shallow arc across the moment. I stand tall enjoying every simple movenment. Careless and free I need no one to tell me I will be ok. No one to accept me. I have no regrets and will give no apologies. Anything that matters will come to know me for who and what I am. I need nothing to stay my hand as it pull`s the hat from my head.
I stand for an instant frozen in time and inhale.
Clean and cool and embracing, the coy as the weather filcks and flitters about my body. Wrapped in black cloth, white cotton and the wind. I feel the old fammiliar kiss of peace on my forehead. I need nothing else to usher me into this season. I have myself, I have my friends I have my family to keep me warm; that is all I`ll ever need. The stars feel like they are smiling as the earth greets every footstep. I follow the concrete path home to my bed where I will dream pleasantly and await whatever tomorow brings.
Fall is here.
I am ready.

(doctorifyoucanthelpwhocan)

Everything in moderation.
Ever pushing the envolope anyways, despite the warnings.
Becoming phantoms, an escapees wet dream.
Its like a Vegas contradiction.
Well scripted star studded but distinctly north american, western european.
Fun loving but twisted, callouse and disconected.
Everythings become larger then life but none of it is real, tangible or solid.
I want to ask what do you think? I want to ask what's your take? What do you see?
I won't ask you cause I know what the answer will be.
It's ok just do it, if it's not hurting anyone it's ok by me.
What about tommorow?
This is a new spiritualisum based on thinly veiled materialism and reality television.
Is this the world you want to raise your children in.
It all good, it all fair game.
Playing both sides or the coin.
Boths sides of the buracratic establishement.
This is how busniess is done wether its corprate american, toronto on london.
Everyone loves a party especially this one.
Until your diagnosed with cancer, kill someone with your car, smash your own dream's with old age and or denial. A self-destructive tendency dressed up like a girl with long legs in a summer dress looking all but innocent.
In that flowered pattern of reds, whites and blues standing there in a birka, a yamika, with some aincent book.
We borrowed this place from someone wealthy and cheapened it with xenon lights and turbochargers, high brow clubs where there's no one on the dance floor but there's a line up that stretches around the block and back to the door.
How did we get too cool for ourselves.
How did we get so lost in a place that's so small.
A place where love has turned to pornography, it used to be we wern't allowed to connect with our own sexuality now its that we can't connect with a tender touch.
All I can seem to do is stare and watch with tremendous, trembling fascination.
First class whores walking rodeo or queen searching for an expensive handbag with that limited edition sequined design.
Out sourced and manufactured cheap a dollar on the dime.
In a place where it's preached that less is more. More is all we strive for.
Carrying a lapdog or an infant child surrounded by men in suits that just say yes.
The rest of us are as guilty as the so cleverly branded best of us.
This caste system is dictated part in way by how we choose to embrace the realitys around us. So many people I came up with came from familys that were affluent but they are still standing in alleys ignoring the gifts they were born with.
Method acting like we were teen's drinking for comfort from whatever glass you choose; wether it's crystal or plastic or disposable skin.
A forty ouncer wrapped in a plastic bag we can't even be bothered to use paper anymore.
We only pause to down the antidepressants that we were perscribed like a political platform with no mention of the side effects, the detriments those are the things we saved for later, saved for ourselves, the suprises.
The ones we scandalize with the next election race approaches.
Acting stupid like we wern't the ones screaming for blood with one hand in someones pocket.
Gotta keep this life interesting the deity's forbid we actually have something with witch to get bored with.
God forbid we stop for a second and begin to think.
Begin to think of some way to fill our time that isn't the abuse of a freedom or a substance or someone else's way of life.
This is modern existance composed like pop music.
It's all single serving, processed, one use, engineered for a short attention span.
So go ahead throw it away its biodegradable just like us just like them.
Who are they really anymore when everone has become the proverbeal man.
Theres no thought anymore to the process, to the impact, only syntax and arguments and excuses.
A shallow comfort for a face that smiles like it's been sewed on and cut from a fashion magazine. To afraid to frown or get upset.
Ashes to ashes dust to dust and sooner of later we will age and rust and then what?
Hypocrites dancing in circles and I'm dancing with them so sweetly conflicted.
Confused and restless and felling helpless and aflicted.
I would make a change if I just knew how.
Most day's I don't and others I think I do on I seem to just try and fail.
A terrifying paradox acccentuated by time a short lifespan
A culture of consumerist complacencey.
Doctor I think I have a problem I just can't seem to go into a shop these day without the urge to buy something.
To Possess anything and everything.
All things in moderation.

(areviewofatelevisionshowihavebeenforcedtowatchmywholelife)

You can't always get what you want. The rolling stones taught me that.
This is a surerealist television series full of heart break and longing. Rotten joke's at the expense of the main character. A horrifying set of twists and plot turns. Overwhelming themes, awkward writing and bad acting. It is set in the suburbs with brief interludes in citys and towns. Foreshadowing so obvious its nearly nauseating. Somewhere though through its folly there is a sweet sub plot. Some redeeming quality that keeps the writers scripting and the actors acting.
One that keeps me laughing, crying and watching. Our main character is an artist, a muscian in fact. The kind of hopeless dreamer that sums up a different generation. One that is forever restless, a little vain, kind of clumsy and bit awkward. Much like himself though they are noble at heart. He longs for a life worth something and feels he is drowning in a digital sea. With tremendous talents and potential he fights himself unknowingly to let them bloom. He just can't seem to find the means to come out on top. Average in many ways he constantly worries about other people opinions of him. Yet he tells everone he dosn't. He dreams about his child hood and wishes he had taken better advantage of it. It seems to cripple his abilitys. Amongst other things he is typicaly young though even in his mid twentys he worries his time is up and that he is becoming irrelevant to the world and the people around him. He wonders if he was ever relevant. This is a story about self-confidence. The themes however rich or sparse are mostly him searching for some sense of purpose and meaning through failed relationships, internal and interpersonal conflict. Its a slice of life story about someone who just wants to be loved by everyone. We pick up in the midst of the 26th season. Fall sweeps are on the rise and in the premier episode our character has decided that due to health concerns and his own self-destructive tendencies he will quit drinking, consuming coffee and smoking weed. Mayhem ensues, sort of. This choice however positive seems to distance him even further from his inspiration. These things were his muse in a way. Everything to him seems stale and with out sheen. So off he goes to repair years of damage. Broken friendships and tarnished reputations are the emotional landscape that his life's highway is paved through. What he has left to work with at this juncture in the story seem so desperate and far away. Even if they might not be . Needless to say he is nearly paralyzed when he tries to reckon with how to begin.
His new spartan lifestyle has its ups and downs.
He dreams of meeting someone perfect that he can fall helplessly in love with. He can't though seem to motivate himself to pursue anyone he meets. Not that he meets anyone that interesting anyways. A few characters are introduced but most of them that seem appealing in anyway are too young or leaving for greener pastures.
Todays episode ends with the rolling stones playing as he writes slowly on his laptop outside his home. He considers his life and tired comes to a realization. Sighing before he logs off he thinks out loud, "Its just seems so uninspired, Should I even post this?" He does despite his misgivings regarding its quality. He signs off his slow rambling blog with a line from the aformentioned musical group, "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might get what you need"
Good advice, some the character should learn to live by.

(ifyoudontgetitthatsok)

Bait.
Something left for a stranger to find.
A post on some random internet dating site. A song playing out a car window. A loud bit of seemingly interesting conversation in a busy crowded bar.
I'm trendy as fuck and not even trying.
Does that mean I'm cool? Even through this eternal partisan bitching.
A static canvas to be painted and made full with numbers and signs.
Language has no meaning in this world of short speak text messaging and stars.
All of us greedy hipocrites lying all the while to get a ahead, to get laid, to get rich, to get respect.
Embelishing old stories like we remember them that way.
Still searching for a legacy?
like it really matters.
We should be able to see now that we've cut down all the trees.
Can we? Or were we blind always?
I can't reconcile myself and me. A miscounted bank deposit. The spelling and arithmatic is just fucked and its got female back up singers to lend it some sort of soul credability.
does it matter?
what really matters?
If I make it big doing anything will it sink in?
will it mean anything like I want it to.
Confusion seems the only norm.
Just in case I would like to lend a bit of contextual relavence to my own existance, my art if this can pass as such.
I don't care if I am unreadable, I do this for me not you.
I don't care if I can spell cause I can understand just fine,
even if my syntax is lacking and I'm just underacheving
I don't care if I tell the occasional bullshit story cause it's only you thats gonna call me on it.
Only to make yourself feel better wether you know it or choose to ignore it.
Right for the sake of being.
I don't care if I'm cliche your just strange for to be that way.
There is some beauty here in the suburbs and its a kind of zen you find only when your suffering.
Inches from where it is to be truly happy.
So fucking sick of what you have got.
You find it where you can and I understand that.
Be happy while you can angst is overrated and so is conflict.
I would much rather be watching the bats swarm in the last rays of the last day of the summer.
After the rain eveything feels new in some strange way.
Yes, even if it isn't.
Religon is fine unless your sticking it like a dick down my throat.
Beleive in what you want.
I simply belive that I inherently alredy understand what I need to know.
Not that I'm not down for learning.
This road is flying under my wheels.
Wether its a prophet or a saviour or buda or satan or krishna.
I'm much to busy to care, unlocking my own infinity.
Oh and one last thing...
If I ever made you angry by saying anything hat I have said.
It's OK I probably still love you anyways.
Even if you don't love me.
do your thing
Thats what make you beautiful and free.
Not the figures on your paycheck. Not the shirt on your back or the skirt that covers your legs, the car you drive or the guitar you play.
Baby this is divinity.
This is modern zen.
I don't need any teacher just myself.
If I amakward, ugly, crass, or just honest.
It's Ok with me because thats just who I am.

I'm cool with that.

I wouldn't give it up for anything.

That's freedom baby.

Thats modern divinity.

(asongforanoldfriend)

Its so easy being sad.
Too easy these days to get lost.
This path was never clear, always curved, broken and jealous.
So many instants of passion and justice, sorrow and love that instant seems to be all we've got-
but its not.
Entrys and exits so beautiful like wedding ribbons and funeral blacks and greys.
Tears and glory, triumph and tragedy.
Songs we sang as children.
No idea how or where growing up would take us.
In this terribly beautiful space we are all but blowing leaves.
So many of us are born and die in the suburbs , in the cities, in the wide open starry eye'd country.
Us gifted ones, us spoiled rotten.
Its so much harder to be content then it is to stand up straight and smile.
Hurricane eyes a small glowing child not yet hardened by this tempestous gail.
Stay young at heart and steeled with will.
Find something that makes you happy.
A boy, a girl, an electric guitar.
How long can you go with booze, cocaine and longing?
Before you completely lose sight of that little kid that once stood in your place.
Eyes wild and bright burgeoning teeming with life and fight.
Thats the person I want back thats the one that I miss.
That calming innocence like a glass filled up with all the things I never had the courage to speak.
Those holes empty you out like some vessel that has gone and sprung a leak.
Its so easy being sad.
Its too easy to get lost.
Find your way.
Before it costs you all that you've got.

(engard)

She turned and looked at him.
"What the fuck is this then?"
A query.
"Nothing I guess"
A response. Followed by inate unhappiness.
"What you think it's funny.", She blurted.
Shocked and acting frusterated; this was a definitive case of emotional indigesition.
"So what? We just fuck. Is that all this is to you."
He smiled a wry and crooked smile.
"Well I kind of thought we were friends too."
Rebuttle.
Words to duel with.
"Asshole! Fucking asshole!", She shouted.
Stab.
"No I'm not"
Parry.
"And how do you figure that?!"
Slash. Footwork. Stab.
"Well you don't seem to have a problem calling me for weed on a daily basis. Especially weed that is very, very cheap"
Parry. Counter. More footwork.
"Thats how we met remember."
Stab.
"You make me sound like a whore!"
Return. Footwork.
"I hardly think so."
Pause.
"I seem to remember that you wouldn't call me unless you needed something; something like weed. Then we started eventually to speak when you grabbed and then, one fateful evening, we-"
Jab. Footwork.
"We fucked! I remember it well!"
Attack. Jab.
"I'm glad you do that means I did something right. You were drunk I didn't think that you remembered at all"
Return.
Point.
"Coming from you that says quite a bit. You could barely get it up!"
Attack.
Point.
"Thats besides the point I'm just saying labels make for awkwardness"
Jab. Parry. Jab
"A label or nothing at all!"
Jab, Jab again.
"Not even friendship? It's just fucking really its not so complicated!"
Jab. Parry.
"It's always complicated"
Return.
"It doesn't have to be."
Jab.
"All I'm saying is that if what you want is someone to change your facebook status for then it ain't me babe."
Point.

``Fine then I`ll keep that in mind the next time I pickup the phone now come back to bed.``

Twisted up like a spliff we all dance with sabers.
We all want the same things someone to want us. Things are bound to change sometime.
For now we make use of quick feet and sharper wits. Tounge in cheek, amongst other things.
Love is a formless battle most often just a hair shy.
Just not quite enough.
In that Tangled Up In Blue Bob Dylan kinda way.
Listless and floating like a bird searching for solid ground.
Live to fight another day.

(didntgetthememo)

One O'clock.
Dark out the street lights are screaming so quietly you'd think no one could hear.
Humming tunes as I walk. The sky is pale navy purple. Closed up like a flower trapping a fly.
No stars out tonight. I couldn't care less. Its errie and surreal like living inside a dome.
A film projector running on loop, there is no one to turn it off. No ones home.
Did we miss the note he left on the kitchen counter.

Dear you,
Its up to you now. This responsibility its yours. Don't muck this up with neon lights and campy faux paradise trees. You'll see I built you full of cliche, we don't need you going out and adding anymore of it on your own. There are things much more important. You have to learn to focus. This is a painting not a playground. Try not to dissapoint. I'll see you on the other side.

One thirthy two

Crossing gaurd lights are sleeping with distance between them.
They work to warn but never seem to get along. Unless there is a job that needs to be done they don't bother extending there arms. Funny how we just sit and wait while they argue and flail. No one does anything these days unless it comes to blows anyways.
So ill keep walking. Somewhere out there theres a home waiting for someone like me. A pretty wife and a pair of kids. I heard it somewhere in a song, on the radio or maybe I was told in a one way conversation with a strange TV. We never did get along him and me. He just kept talking. No one stops to listen these days.
Did we miss the note. Mabye it didn't have a sticky strip. It fell in, down behind the microwave. It's under the couch or lost in a pile of video games an DVD's

You need some dark, a little quiet once and a while.
Sooner or later you'll remember how to feel? It dosn't work that way you have to try. Give it a little elbow grease. Remember the last time we said we would just let things be. They didn't exactly work out the way you thought they would did they. This apathy it never plays. Dig down deep and be still, you know the things you have to do. It was never them that put you up to it. That history well son that was still you acting up. Thats the beauty in this fish bowl there is no where you can hide. Nowhere to go. So make that descision. What are the kids saying these days "Thats how we roll"
This is a painting not a playground. I'll see you on the other side. Do better than your best. I know you'll try not to dissapoint.

Four thirty and the sun's rising on a fresh new day.
Still standing up right still making our way.

(gostraighttohell)

I stole this note book from a friend.
Your scheming to steal this flag.
Market it en mass brand.
I won't sit at god right hand.
Not if he's draped in a US flag.
Huge disproportionate breasts painted with star spangled hands.
Take more and more.
No cheap proxy whore.
They have feelings too.
Just like soldiers.
You think honestly they want to fight in the name of war?
Face burnt off or do you truly not care?
oil crushed form an olive branch.
Blood squeeze from a sunny hot stone.
You think we really want to walk through that door?
Singing rebel songs for ears that don't care.
Dying in throngs. Dis-ease and dis-pair.
Go straight to hell boys.
I imagine it as Mr. Joe would have said it.
From what I have read.
We stole these songs.
We stole this heart and the after echo of throbs.
Watch them play, out on the desert below.
Hell beneath us.
Ask calmly for identification.
I say cosmopolitan and for now, real.
those who don't know need to stop living by what they see on television.
Others know but don't know enough to explain.
I am not sure who I am.
Just eternally restless eyes.
Jumping from sight to sight. From am to pm.
Eager young boy in an old mans bank.
I stole this note book from a friend. I don't know why. I don't remember exactly and when.
You though, you have a definite plan.
I won't sit at god right hand. Be tatooed read white and blank.
You can go straight to hell boys.
Culture killers, forgetters, more than just bloody hands.

(abeachoradesert)

There are eyes everywhere.

Looking constantly at tiny grains of sand. A beach teeming with life that lives unaware of the larger beasts that step and trod. Plodding along on dreams and hopes. Destroying everything we would love to hold close. Familys torn apart. Love crushed by social boundary and subconsious hatred. The kind we have all been bred with. Wether we know it or not its there. Whether we choose to bury it or lock it up. Our biases float like a man hanging from the gallows. A beauracratic monster that knows no love.
No compassion.
No understanding.

Just thinly veiled wanting and convenience.

Walking along a lonely stretch of beach under stars that once twinkled with a famillar childlike innocence. Dim observers frozen billions of miles away they store a history forgotten like yesterdays headlines. Icy and still under the terror of an ambiguous threat. Inaction trapped in city gridlock. Mute and unspeaking they no longer sing. Only the brave ones flicker to far gone to be heard. Transmutating into legend and conspiricy. There are ears everywhere. They listen in to the static hum. Millions upon millions of voices speaking at once. They have become numb and disparate, healed over with skin. Forgotten by an evolution of social brutality. Water sucked up by the wind and dumped back into a endlessly deep sea. Once rain but always ocean simply rearranged. Diluted by the electric hum of cellphones, computers and advertisments.
Television sets speaking in new modern tounges.
Even everlasting stone is everntually ground into meal.
A long winding beach. Bilions of grains of conflicted co-existance unaware of the scocopathic grace that hunts them among these lost dunes. Cost effective progress attained at any cost. Your or mine. Bought and sold with grey steely opaque regulation.
Progress, greeds bitch of an obtuse ex-lover.
Alone and a man walks listening to the simulated rush of waves on a concrete. A freeway bisecting farmers field. Homeless and down trodden with pockets bulging phallic with cash.
Crushed like granite and limestone to create sand.
These creatures walk on above us, amongst the endless systems of control that in the end truly control nothing. Chaos burgoning like some wild animal to strong to subdue.
To cunning to just not escape.
Here we are tiny specks washed away by disaster, cities, politics, syntax, fashion and human ambition. Flushed down a hungry drain by technology, lifespan and impatience. We that make up the beaches littered with shell casings and camera lenses, plastic wrappers and archaic legislations.
Blast craters and broken legacys.
The eternal tiny hypocrite searching for meaning in porno videos and empty bottles and baggies; in god and country, in love conflict and flawed reason.
We modern man whom chooses to look for solace everywhere but inside ourselves
Searching in and amongst the miniature wreckage of an old, good idea.
There are eyes everywhere. Staring all the time at themselves and telling us we aren't them. Tinys grains of sand on an ever expanding beach. Lonely cruel miles inhabited by preadators and prey dancing in a never ending sultry embrace.
A long alien beach teeming with life.
While you and I walk hand in hand unaware, dressed to the nines, opulent and ignorant in bliss.
All the while strolling on someone else's stolen beach.

Who's dreams are you walking on?

(bornofashesandflames)

I like to smoke cigerettes and make profound statements. Unfortunatly I am much better at smoking cigerettes. The former will kill you much faster the the latter will and when you die, eventually, you d better hope that you said or did something goddamn fucking poetic.
Some sort of impact.
Isn t that what were all after in the end anyways. Poets, muscians, artists, politicans; all were after is some sort of lasting legacy. Some sense of meaningful imortality. A vain pursuit.
In this life, this culture of convienence, vanity is really all we seem to have. Blogs, facebook accounts, flickster and myspace. All just screaming attempts to be recognized. Blazing attempts at life after death cannonized on digital mediums that are infact more fragile then our own flimsy cardboard and plastic lives. Our opinions floating like a sinking ship, listless in cyberspace. Firing flares into the black empty air.
A final s.o.s. screaming do not fucking forget me. I mean something.
The primal human instinct to recreate ourselves. We will do anything to further our family line, further our species , further our knowledge or ourselves. We long to understand a world with no comprehensive guide book, no google map for existance, no wikipedia for the soul. For every question answered a million new ones arise. Our faliure to comprehend has birthed this artificial world. A second life and new universe to help us cope with our own confused existance. To help us to justify it. The oldest question anyone knows, the first question most of us ask ourselves...

Why..

Why are we here...

What are we doing..... What is our purpose.

I guess this is my own way of grasping at cosmic straws. My own intellegence struggling to figure itself out. My little black box flight recorder. Maybe someone will pull this from the wreckage of internet porn and pirated software and give a little insight into the slow madness that is ourselves. I don t count on it though. So I light another cigerette and hope that someone one day finds my message in a bottle floating free on this vast electronic ocean. That they pluck it from the cool black void and unfurl this message. A message in a language long since unspoken and forgotten. I remove another cigerette from a crumpled pack and let the flame from an androgenous, disposable, enviromentaly unfreindly lighter lick its tip. Born from flames and ending in ashes, just like us. I like to smoke cigerettes but one day it will kill me. That is if nothing else does it first. Welcome to infinty, to possibility extended. This cyclical metaphysical dialouge bettween you an me. It never ends and as it moves and if there is one thing I can be sure it is that......

I will never be him again.