10 & 2

knuckles on my left hand are cracked & bloody, like a tainted alien shore. a jagged map that I'm finding has less to do with the season, and more to do with lack of cohesion. a concept not so much foreign, but mainly abandoned. eloquence is a bitch-goddess, to say the very least. relegate such trappings of specificity to the fucking hounds. 

albuquerque

I am the living personification of poor planning. or little to none, as my slippers would attest as they entered the liquor store to attain cigarettes. 
tears were shed, as per the notes below.

So, 

I was sitting in the canvas swivel throne in the yard of Lord Shiny Top, staring upwards into a nighttime firmament just this side of visible breath. and an interloping realization manifested like some specter of fucking superfluous revelation: this moment is the most peace that I've felt since I could remember. 

tragic peace....

it's not simply a question of what happened, but also when. as in, the chronology of tribulations is solid, yet the details are opaque. they fucking flange and ricochet back and forth inside my skull like a weeping child in the center of an empty gymnasium. the most rudimentary definition of lost. flailing, in point of fact.a tiny maroon wisp of cloud dissipating before your eyes. adding gravity to the term 'eventuality'.