selling my soul for the rent:
it has come to this
finally.
or, so soon?
i am stretched thin, faltering far from a body of water that matters (no lakes no nothing no salt & the sea in my sleep)
and writing little
to none.
social miscast
sitting on the outside | hands dry | eyes wide | quiet, because the cat | got my tongue and took | my fingertips with it.
i don't think i like DC, in the end. when i realized that i've been living on lakeshores and seashores consistently for five years, this made sense to me: there is no water. the potomac doesn't count for shit and i'm drowning in dry land. people are beaten down or they are the ones who have been doing the beating, and i'm not interested in wielding a bat or a broom or anything else that would blossom and bruise [on your skin]. friendless, in a social climbing city. (500) days i've been uncomfortable in my own bones and i'm tired of it. tired of tolerating. i want to be in love with a place again.
where is doctor parnassus?
he's been hidden away like mcwatt and
the devil,
and the three of them must be having some kind of raucous discussion because
man!
what i wouldn't give to low and twist in the gravitational winds, to dive
and deliver, my wings at great
dystopian
dizzying heights (meaning mountains and gravity, minus the fall).
off to find a wellspring.
