Oh baby.

Your tenderfoot soul, my gossamer dream. Shredded in the engines of my ambition. In love's bitter mystery.

And then you're lost. A bygone memory, faded by the wash of time.

Now as I wander through shelter-less days, I'm still not entirely sure of what exactly went wrong. The idea of us seems so impractical now. Did you really happen to me, or was it yet another convoluted trick my restless mind sprung on me to while away hours on end.

And I know how I make you over discuss everything - struggling to fix us with desperate fluffs and pats a restless sleeper gives his pillow, flipping it over for the brief soothing cool side - before it goes flat and tepid again. Desperation tinged words. Just to hear your voice, to repeat those words I crave.

The phrase "Suicide / Success" floods my skull in celestial chorus, the latest addition from my inner voice, and the one who's pith I still admire.

Okay. Deep breath honey. Things could always be worse right? Think cortical aneurysm or even Prison gang sodomy. Although right now the entire concept of gratitude feels largely academic and under appreciated.

Well anyways before i go on in this saracasm tinged spiel I'm off to get some sleep, so hopelfully I can wrench myself out of this terribly black mood that I've somehow got myself into.

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