I'm packing up my t-shirts into a large black plastic bin & the street outside looks like a strip steak of dry-aged beef. it'll happen. somehow. the end of one thing and the beginning of another. stupid, spiteful Colorado winter be damned. I will be gone this time tomorrow.
trailing behind me a half-chewed sinewy chain of mistakes & regrets, like some runaway victim in a bad horror film. a victim who has conveniently forgotten, through their terror, the damning errors they have committed. however, like any menial movie of such genre, said victim witlessly stumbled into the aforementioned circumstances, which are stuck in my back teeth like said sinew.
the mileage from the creative fuel I've gotten after my random disease is sort of astounding, but in the end, means meager in light of....
I hate, in the smallest insidious ways. like nanobots of discontent, infiltrating the tiniest breaks in the fabric of daily domestic human interaction. but my hate wears a mask of retail subterfuge.
