12:30

2003-15-10, 12:23 a.m.

thinking that sleep is the pill for sore eyes, sore throats; i am mistaken. the skin on my forehead is almost aflame, the way it creeps into my skull, through bone and onto gray flesh. the scene would be dire for a stranger tonight, i feel like the fog could tear a man apart from the solid ground like a flower from its stem.

do you ever notice the circles that eyes make, like the path of a race car driver, they spin on objects and walls (oh the slippery roads!) nothing can tap into emotions like they used to, because i love a girl and she loves me. the little bits of frustration flake off the roof and come to rest on my fingers, i cannot brush them off for fear of infection. instead, i allow each milky white piece its own seat on my knuckles, the shortened hairs on the back of my hands, all possible spaces are rented out. under the skin is still the yearning for ultimate serenity, the veiled woman will still feel as though her lips could be more full.

go away sticky throat! nobody wants this taste, like the white puss of a broken dandelion, all i can do is wait for the white to fade slowly, then become dry brown crust for me to wash off. please take it away before i choose sleep, and much like the average american, i find ignorant bliss.

the warmest blood rushes forward

your skin is starting fires on my plains

when will the rain come, we are waiting

so that warm air can bring me back to birth