cuz you know that its over

2004-11-05, 1:18 a.m.

this is a neon green road map with black veins, tattooed with numbers and letters that indicate what artery they lead to. i follow them with my finger, and i wonder what each road carries, how many cars are filled with a soil-dream of finding a new place to root yourself.

its all about the fight for free time. when you are free, you look for someone to keep a hold of, latching on securely so you dont get too far ahead; claiming to be in a state of euphoria. what new music is this? chiming in with a ridilin truth that numbs the senses to a point of obscure realism, the autistic mind organinzes the folders of the past into a strangely familiar pattern. the feet marks of street shoes worn into a brand new gym, black comets streak through the polished atmosphere of wood, leaving a trace of sound that sounds most like a cricket's chirp cut short.

thats the last straw i could find to place on my own back, lifting the solid wooden stand up above my head, i watch the ground accelerate towards me as i am collapse downwards. i cut through any safety net years before i knew one would be needed, more for pleasure than any other purpose, i must have been satisfied to watch my values coagulate over the self inflicted wounds that a ten year old fashioned for himself. it leads me to the music, because music is a half told story, a connect-the-dots that was traced with invisible ink. im handed a pen to write the end of the story, and im handed a crayon to retrace the numbers for my own eyes to see. when im done, and satisfied with my work, i promptly crumple the paper and throw it away, because god knows what would happen if i left a genuine impression on someone close to me.

moon on the bay
milk spilling out of the mountain
the boats are black polka-dots in the white water