I see those who at one time I would like to consider friends become the manifestation of all the is conventional, the marriage to the college sweet heart, the house with a small room waiting for its time to be a nursery. I imagine a lengthly marriage, maybe til death. I recollect that this woman that I so wanted as a confidant to be utterly without need for excitement, as codependent as they come. In contrast to them I feel as though I am living without any of their convention. At every opportunity I stare into the abyss and swallow the loneliness and the fear it inspires every time I force my eyelids open to behold what is. I envy their contention their blind simple existence I also fear I would never be able to find such contentment with convention. Mostly I fear that I have utterly missed the point, if there is any, abstained from most if not all valuable experiences. I was born to watch and listen to recoil from participation. I think, I read, I feel, I listen, little else. Between me and them there is a mountain of incongruity. I may die knowing just how willfully I stumbled from mistake to mistake

I am the amorphous extensions from the polymeric chains of my genetic code. Structure from chaotic experience built on the precise order of surviving inherited traits.

I can't wait for the weather to turn cold again. Even though this has been a pretty mild summer I am looking forward to the first snow fall.

Is it somewhat odd to be haunted by an imagined experience of being conscious while a medical professional saws my sternum in half. humph, didn't think so...

Is this all there is, the daily sharp drag of a razor across skin.

Its a lovely world, sun shine radiant, my socks aren't as warm as advertised and you, for the moment, are only a delightful aberration I congealed from the primordial soup between my ears. Honk Honk, check your mirrors, I am the guy crawling up the ass of the delightful heap of shit your operating to and fro. If you lack stereoscopic cognition I'll help you with an image. I drive a obscenely ugly maroon 1989 buick lesabre. The kind with the pose-able hood ornament and combination spoiler/luggage rack, gorgeous in its utility and reliability or so my mother contests. Other than the contrast of sparkling chrome and faded acrylic the only other point of interest is the stuffed golden retriever wearing aviators goggles and red scarf which flaps happily in the wind from its perch on the roof above the drivers seat where I have bolted him, her, it. Proud randy the most aerodynamic off all the mutts I found at the taxidermist. Now if you will allow me I will describe you for you. You as I have conceived, do allow and I am so bold. You, have on the remnants of a spaghetti strapped polyester/cotton blend black party dress slim and previously elegant which in its original state crept only half way up the thigh. Only one strap remains intact and it has slide off the shoulder propped up on the arm which you have propped up on the base of the open window. The other less lucky strap dangles in two pieces from the front and back having lost its unity somewhere close to half way. With no rampart to support a concealment your right breast bobs free in the clear air with nipple soft. You are a twist of the real and traditional fiction what on first look would give the impression of half finished calligraphy whose lines diverge from beneath each eye and down pink freshly slapped cheeks where they free fall to uncovered breast, now tumbling down cleavage to disappear. 60 years ago the women depicted carefully vacuuming in ladies home journal would be jealous of your mascara's longevity. Eyes red, cigarette clasped in a wrathful hand flicking ash 40 or 50 times a minute and nails broken and tattered with remnants of her hair squeezed in cracks. Alternating visages of triumph and defeat pass through you in waves. You are a mess, you are alive and I love you for that, I don't know why.

You fucking sea turtle,

fuck it never mind