deception.

it's an awful role to play.

in contrast to my everyday,
i don't seem to make sense.

some people are bitches.

and i'm not one of them.

okay, i am a little.
but while the world keeps doing its thing--turning, turning and turning
i'm going to sit back.
absorb it all.
laugh at them, cry for them, wonder about them.

this life is a tragedy. here one moment, and gone the next.
it's only fair that we do what we want, say what we think.
raise our voices in opposition or in rally-cries.
it is important that we love when we love, but not to the extreme.

live just to be in it.

so it goes.

yesterday
we lost a voice. a thought-provoking, triumphant and hilarious voice.

there's nothing left to argue.
kurt vonnegut is dead.

what.

i can't help myself.
i am a total disaster.


what would i be if i were miles away from here now?

shortbread and pineapples.

of course.
it's always about food.

never about emotions.

this was suppposed to mean something, but i am suddenly at a loss.
i don't know what i am waiting for. or maybe i do, and i know that it's just entirely unattainable.

it usually is.

happier now.

i find myself waiting for the perfect moment.
waiting for one perfect moment after another.

i don't feel for myself anymore.
instead, it's other people's poetry that influences my most intimate thoughts.
and every song on the radio contributes something.
not every word, and not every note.
but every constant hum from harmonic lips speaks volumes to me.
the steady, unassuming, and virtually unnoticed notes that exist only in contentment,
and at the same time, total melodic bliss--high-pitched and free.
soaring and smoldering, simultaneously.
sexy and sad.

"she is smiling and said 'come on'."

an invitation to be vulnerable,
but an obligation to her hardened heart.

a love song.

"and like falling stars, back down to sleep we'll go

to our waiting arms and orbits round the globe.
coverlets and down will catch you when you fall. . ."

one year ago,
i reveled in its misery.
the bittersweet love song that echoed the mild aching in my chest and the tumbling torrent contained in the storm clouds just above my head.
i remember the sentiment perfectly.
i can taste the salt of that very moment.

tonight, its the same song, the same season. the same strained voice.
but now i sense something else.
this time there is longing, desire, and lonliness under his words.

"baby, that's not all."

I wonder. I wonder how this might be different
if i could get you to look at me with your perfect eyes,
to speak to me with your perfect voice.
for you to walk away from me.
for you to let me fall.

"baby, that's not all."