HIJACKED BY YOUR OWN GHOST

it was earlier than he thought, when he was hijacked from a truly surreal anthological collection of dreams, by a sudden frontdoor tattoo. guess the whole piss, purify then prim thyself procession must wait. the frontdoor would've creaked like a phantasm, save that it'd been oiled a few months prior. and, speaking of spectres, the face his eyes met once the holy threshold had been broken, giving way to the unholy light of day, could've only been described as such: gaunt around the jaws and eyes, like some sensual demon yet, with the cheeks of a cherub, innocence insurrected by hunger. now, it was the eyes which clued him in. those eyes were mine, he thought. not as in, he desired them, but that they were his own eyes. a lazy jade green, like a mid-spring day, cluttered with insects and spores and wispy grass nearly dessicated by the sun. frame not exactly slight, because the shoulders wouldn't allow such physical geometry, but more like the desciption of a traditional youth would represent. and finally, as the eastern eyebrow, and western smile both jutted up to the sky, respectively, he simply knew.

"I think about you often", I said. 
"I know you do," he said, "We hear it quite a bit."

X-mas Dinner at the Oblivious Benefactress' Home

I will wake up in the morning into a world that belongs not to me but to my child, and all children. I may not be sober, but I will be present; regardless of my absolute repugnance toward the day, and everything in which it is associated. I will commit to the task at hand, else I be relegated to the fiefdom that is Douchebaggery. 

Gifts will be opened and merriment will be had. Supplications made to (their) God, and all will be well.

Just as long as they don't direct their fucking

judgement towards my disbelief...