Friday, May 10, 2013

I would sell my soul for something pure and true . . .

Ain't it the case, my friends, to taste that distilled purity, drip drop, itty-bitty minute laced indulgence for us kiddos, layin' back, as we are, in the summer time of our sobriety, our uninterrupted plateau of higher calling, i.e. that which we mustn't think of directly, except when reminded of the difference, the stark recall button pushed, pressed, deeper now, we're getting there, until, ahh, simple utter relief, oh so long coming.

If only.

If only I flailed in the middlemen of my own ignorance and came out with friends.

If only I could frolic undisturbed for years in a bed of rose pedals.  If only romance would tingle on the fringe of my life and I would have the courage to look back for once, instead of finding uncountable excuses in the molecular structure of fractal outlines;  anywhere that is generic, please i beg of you.  Direct eye contact makes me sick.

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