Because Love Is Out Of Fashion And I Gave Her My Shoes

The world is the puzzle on the last page of the Sunday paper that I forget to read, and decidedly leave in the stack next to the firewood I'm saving for Winter. I just woke up from Tokyo and I'm glad to be back.

A girl once said to me, "Eyelids are the screens which memories are played on" and it made me want to pour a half empty glass over reruns. My goal is to be better than this, and my deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. My secrets are bullets and I'm out to get the world.

Nearly nine months later, I'm still editing love letters, even after I flooded the post box. It's just the kind of boy that I am.

Everything before all of this was undramatic. Not worthy of a story or script. Just another bad memory that makes as good ammunition for the voices in my head and the butchers in my chest.

The way you think of the universe as huge or impressive or magnificent, that's the way the contours of your face feel, in my mind, and the way your lips part when you think or sleep or grieve is the way I'd like to be, only forever instead of for a minute, an hour, or a day.