Whatever

What a fucking tragedy: Life played out on burnt film, and the slow motion devices of its aphrodisiac depress me. And the endless glaring sun--it is yellowed with nicotine and thick with exhaust, and it follows me. It feels like Burden, and I am wet with guilt. The heated meandering Eye is condescending, and its mood reflects Desire seeping like honey in its scope.

I drove by your house.

Your car was gone,

and I burst into tears.

Last night, the thought of your empty driveway lonesome in the formidable moonlight haunted me. I paced awake, thinking about our paths crossing, and the undeniable lack of reasoning involved.

I question the motive of labeling Good and Evil, and the insatiable need to apply these theories to Everything. On a baseline of "happy," what does Sad really mean?

Shit happens like a solitary piece of tumbleweed lost in the desert. We scratch at the winding dirt roads and we howl with coyote; we hunt for the richest blood until we murder the prey. And when the moment passes removed from our digestion, we are materialized unquenchable.

And again the cycle of undoing spins faster, as we all try desperately to hang on.