11:36, night time.

There is nothing wrong with me.

Of course.

Despite of the truth that I sat on a bench on two occassions next to a row of 'interrupteds', chemically altered for the moment, eyes insane while conversating with 'beings' that disappear and reappear from the filthy flower boxes.

Of course.

***

Daniel Johns day in, day out. Daniel Johns tucking me in in the evenings. Daniel Johns watching the red and the green lights of the dismal avenues at six, with me from my seat in that bus home from Taft. Daniel Johns six times in one sitting. Daniel Johns minus the doe-eyed N.I. Daniel Johns reminding me of this terrible cobweb of half utopia, half nightmare I am caught in.

Yes. I am not entirely happy about it despite of that shimmer I wear around this finger.

I wish. Every. Day.

Wishes: coal threads with pink liver lips. accent heavy. candlestick fingers, thick and clean. far away. impossible.

Impossible.


I love the way you love but I hate the way I'm supposed to love you back. ~ Silverchair