Into my soul
But we keep getting diverted
Because while I am channelling Bukowski one night late in downtown L.A., I set up pings that I don’t really know-how to undo.
And so I wrote something
My new book
And I can’t even find it
Which is funny
And I hate this feeling
I want to say
I think I stumbled
Upon your word like a
T weedle see
He never answered the door. A camera above in the alcove shone down like an archangel and a fingerprint plate illuminated with her breath. She was inside in 7 seconds with a butler gliding off her coat.
There was always some game involved even if it was to discover there was no game. He simply
For my Dom
In fiction only
Not a work in progress
And how are you supposed to do that? I wonder.
“pay attention to your emotional reactions without necessarily acting on your feeling”
Went to bed depressed, woke up lost in sea of anger, resentment and complete existential angst.
And one of us will die first.
These confessionals yield nothing substantial, and yet, sometimes, just knowing that you read them is all I need to breathe a bit more.
Does that make sense?
Is it a voice completely alone on the mountaintop that I hear and cannot get out of my head?
Am I alone?
I don’t ever really know.
It would be much easier, if so.