29.Jan.2003

wait, i have rum upstairs

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ten more seconds of abstracted thought.

The canvas ensconces himself, even while I unfeasibly bend my unpliable hours to the familiarity of insomnia, paint-brush intact.

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I am on your side, I will always be on your side, I just simply abhor the side we occupy. Couldn't we saunter over there, to those lush English hill-sides, those dissimilar greens, every once in a while?

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Devoid mental sustenance, I watch this cursor, sometimes inditing thoughts, although slowly. I tug on strands of hair, exhausted. I receive telepathic desires from the source of my rushed but highly welcomed discomfort, sometimes lost in transmission, fuliginous and cryptic, twisting sharply, faltering to my perception. I want to be concrete. I want to say, "I don't understand."

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I want to page you, but my fingers are hindered by inhibition and this new trepidation, a congeries of my unmitigated inaction.

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The night is long, and home is far away.

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I want to take you as part of my literary harem, shelter you, liquefy you, present the idea to you in the hopes you would sign your name to this dotted line, but I feel as though I'd be encroaching a territory that doesn't belong beneath my feet.

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This is just the intermission, but the snack-bar has closed.

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time & machine