CptWaifer

I don't remember what day it was. . . . It felt red, like a Saturday; but years and chemicals later, it could've been a Wednesday, or even a Thursday. I graduated college in Fall of the last year - "a semester late" as my taskmaster of a father repeatedly reminded me - and my typical schedule since had consisted of not a hell of a lot. Like lots of fresh-faced grads in the first decade of the 2000's, I assumed that I beat a path to inerrant success. I needed only to effortlessly stumble across it. Reality, being what it is, has a terrible inclination to smash one's dreams and plans to chaff; I realize now that it was nothing personal, jus

As the wind blows, it also closes. Dimly-lit corridors to alternate realities sit around us, every bare bulb flickers another lost possibility. Pieces of clouds fall - flaming, wilted, to the ground as we attempt desperate procedures to care. No sequence of incantations can take the place of what didn't exist. Coated in you, covered with me, let's wait for the fickle gusts to guide us under.

She treads, light and effortless, like leaves in the breeze. Lover's hearts congealing in the sun announce her most recent crime. And if she settles for more than an instant, Avert your gaze from her tender cannibalism. Out-of-sight but alluring like the Siren's song, she'll make a desert of her life and yours. Perpetually one step ahead of ensuing scandal, Love is what she needs so bad, but she'll never give hers to you.

Hopelessly adrift, aimlessly askew, I thought we had all the answers, but then again, so did you. Like timber pickets withered by time- so, too, our boundaries eventually devolve to mere suggestion. Cautiously embracing, overtly adversarial - a blindly-spun roulette would prove more predictable. But the tectonic shifts in your heart's interior only provide another universal mystery for me to ponder as my whiskey gets hot and my brow grows wrinkled.

Scores of neon flashing jellyfish thrust past, barely visible through the gloom of the abyssal plain. Slowly, but with reassuring certainty, all the scraps of bygone epochs find their way to that dark, distant floor- There, left to wither and degrade, ironically fashioning all that we have yet to be. I pose that maybe, what we should be concerned with is not where we're going - but why? And how fast?

The sun hangs low, leaving the sky a sordid affair of tangerine and purple, Steam rises in wisps off the pavement, as the polarized scents of humidity and foliage vie for supremacy. Not that she notices any of this in her slow-motion somnambulism. Choruses of birds can little penetrate her unfashionably large headphones. Still, she makes this trek with an unflagging commitment her posture doesn't suggest. Looking all the part like a roving mystic, the discerning mind can sense, can feel, on a glance's gambit. . . she just wants something worth coming home to.