Awake.

What is this magic? As the stale coffee we drank tonight trickles ever so slowly toward my soul, peering for cracks in the surface, I wonder: What is this potent force that beckons me here? I feel it now,

The dull glow of the screen beneath me, in front of me, all around me,

it begs me home.

But I stop. This isn't right. This isn't my time.

For I am within myself. And perhaps; come the day, and if the time is right, this whirlpool we're drowning in we like to call the universe will right itself. And from the rain clouds, I'll call down to myself.

And my voice will infuse itself with every falling drop,
And spiriling ever inward, ever inward, the mud and the ash will swallow themselves in what is left of the chalked outline of my mortal coil.

And I will be born again.






Walking on air, up from the wheelchair,
I'll find the suicide that I deserve.
Walking on sand, forgotten where I am,
but it's so comfortable here in the sun.