#c.c.c.

Keep tearing. The scabs of triggers; your fingers are wearing. Widowing rings to constitute: death do us.

Tenía que intentarlo😌💜

She is a pretty. One I know not how to begin. Silent, we stretch our long introversions into the open beach. They must have left us to talk. To our relief, we do not. I realize I am shy with the pretty and fine with her mystery. We keep this lazy nothing between us.

Doc breaks it to me: your heart is too big or its cavity is too little. But that must be it, doc, just a cavity. It needs a filling.

You sober up a good while, begin to believe in god again: poetry that is, that only source of good and goddamn for you. You silent creature of prayer to a line good or bad, as long as it is there, down, so you don't have to be but be. You drink inward a bad smile, gin- like clarity to devoting a life- time to such a personal futility. The poem is the spirit, from death to birth and worth only what you can imagine, if you can imagine, how you can only imagine, for you wholly imagine if you could bottle it and pour it for friends for ages to come. You uncap the poison, its prosody to proclaim you. The intoxicant. You learn of no sobriety; lifetimes to drink in as you cheers, stumble, astagger in search of new breath, new betters, new ethers to words.

II. (Waste...  I've been wasted  for 18 years.  If you could read the scars  written of my dears...  DTs;  delirium tears.) III. A loner lones. Alones along. IV. /Dreaming of a cinema.  It seems. It seems  to feel like a lost love;  l a s t  love for the  l o s t .

Carving down a hillside, speed at least a thrill, if I catch a pebble this'll be my indirect will; near-kill experience. (Nothing clever accidents. Actually, ever.)